Welcome to What-A-Burger
by jane-with-a-y
Summary: When a lover turns dangerous, Professor Swan is forced to flee her academic life in Massachusetts and goes on the lam. When her truck breaks down in a small North Carolina town she's rescued by a couple of crazy waitresses with hearts of gold. But will their friendship, and the love of a simple man, be enough to save her? "We ain't Flo & Alice, hun, but we're all you got."
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

Welcome to What-A-Burger # Unknown

***Prologue***

"Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken."  
― Jane Austen

The Housatonic River wraps and winds itself around a small village within the shadows of the Berkshires. Cradled within its green and showy depths, lies _Haworth Adams_; a small liberal arts college for men.

Haworth Adams, or _Old Howie_ as the boys refer to it, has been '_Making history in Western Massachusetts since 1801.'_

(I didn't coin this expression; I borrowed it from the school's glossy catalog.)

However, the history mentioned above, in its two hundred plus years of existence, was never meant to be the sensational type that I will personally leave.

_Although in years to come I sincerely doubt Howie will advertise my name in connection with its slogan._

It is at Haworth-Adams where my story first begins; however, where this story ends is a matter of great debate.

Still, as Julie Andrews once sang, _'Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.'_

Thus, I will begin this tale with a simple truth.

Every school in the United States, and most likely, in the world, has a beloved educator, bar none.

From the smallest elementary school to the largest university, there is that one teacher, counselor, professor, or college Dean, to whom everyone gravitates. It's almost as if they have within their very beings, a magnet that draws students inside their offices for deep discussions about deteriorating grades, or for a nonsensical discourse about the questionable entrées dished up weekly in the student dining hall.

His students (for it is most often a position filled by a man) simply adore, no, _revere_ him.

He is the man about campus, the person you want to be, or failing that, wish to be with; a true legend in the making.

His colleagues attempt in vain to emulate his style, and pattern themselves after his character, but unfortunately for them, they fall short, abominably.

He is in a class of his own.

He has that certain something, which the French call _Joie de vivre_, a joy of living, an exultation of spirit, if you will. It can never be imitated or learned regardless the effort one employs.

It is simply innate.

At Haworth-Adams, where I am a Professor of Literature, we had James Witherdale.

I'd heard of him, of course. The faculty lounge in a college or university setting is much the same as the ones in public schools; a meeting place where colleagues have the opportunity to bitch, moan, and gossip. Albeit, all conducted under the guise of communicating; we are an institute of higher learning, after all.

I was sitting at the table nearest to the door when he blew into the lounge one rainy Thursday at the beginning of spring semester. He entered the room with a group of upperclassmen and Stuart Berty, the Dean of Admissions, at his heels.

I had just returned from taking a sabbatical in England and my head was still full of lonely moors, high teas, and tweeds.

There he stood, a perfect mess, clad in heavy, wax cloth Barbour, a proper pair of Wellies, and a patina of rain.

He shook himself as he entered the room, and the rain flew into the air like a magical mist that hung midair for a moment and then fell with tiny plops all around us.

His entourage, for that's what they were, cackled loudly. No one seemed to mind that they were now also covered in the wet outdoors–not even the Dean, who was a fussy old codger on the cusp of retirement.

I took a casual sip of tea, brushed the rain off my shoulders, and gave him an appraising look over my dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice, which was now sprinkled liberally with dew.

The first thing I noticed about James Witherdale was his eyes. They were the exact color of Windex; clear, unadulterated blue, without a hint of guile. They were the kind of eyes that looked happy and innocent, with long lashes that framed them spectacularly, and the tiniest crinkles around the corners, which should have made him appear to be older, yet only served to make him all the more boyish.

The second thing I noticed about him was his laugh; he had the best laugh of anyone I had ever known; jolly, carefree, and exuberant. The man practically brayed when he was filled with mirth, which, as previously stated, was his natural countenance. Writing this description makes him sounds rather obnoxious, I know, but I assure you nothing could be further from the truth; his laughter was both contagious and intoxicating.

The third thing I noticed about him was his kindness. As I continued to glance at him over Mrs. Bennett's lamentations regarding her erstwhile husband's lack of interest in her nerves, I saw him fish some change from his pockets. He gave each student a pile of coins so they could buy themselves a treat.

As they happily began to feed the vending machines, he asked that they buy a pack of Nabs for the Dean, who grinned openly like a fool, and a Bit-O-Honey for his secretary, Mrs. Pickler; "A sweet for the sweet," he laughed.

Everyone knew that Mrs. Pickler was about as sweet as a pickle barrel.

Pun intended.

He looked over at me and grinned, cheekily.

"What is your pleasure, madam? Let me guess … a bar of chocolate to match your eyes or would you prefer something a bit fruity to match your scent?" He asked, in a charming British accent.

You are no doubt wondering why anyone would admire a man whose pickup lines sound like something out of an Edwardian novel. But what you can't hear was the manner in which he delivered these words; he was self-deprecating, teasing, and sincere, all at once.

I blushed into my mug; I was wearing a new body lotion that I had purchased from Crabtree and Evelyn only a mere week ago, _Pear and Pink Magnolia_.

Dean Berty chuckled over his crackers and introduced us. I watched in amusement as the crumbs fought to cling to his salt and pepper beard, then fell onto his cravat, which he dismissed with a brush of his beefy paw.

James Witherdale gave me a small wink and the tiniest of smiles that soon morphed into a full on grin. I found myself smiling in return.

"Dr. Swan, I don't believe you have had the pleasure of meeting the college's most successful recruiter, James Witherdale? James will be taking my place as the new Dean of Admissions. I am retiring at the end of term."

I offered my hand to James Witherdale and a feeling of warmth enveloped me.

"James, this is Isabella Swan, the youngest professor of Literature that Old Howie has ever employed. She just returned from taking a sabbatical in your native country."

"Aha … I see that you are reluctant to take leave of merry old England …. a cuppa, a tweed jacket, _and_ Mr. Darcy? Perhaps our meeting will help fill the terrible void," he teased. My face heated at his jest.

"Mm, and you're just as pink as an English Rose. Ooh, I am going to enjoy getting to know you!" He declared as he released my hand; a feeling I was reluctant to lose. He carefully placed his belongings on the floor and sat down in the seat beside me.

He leaned over and tucked a loose tendril of hair that had escaped from my chignon, behind my ear. I jumped, startled at his unexpected touch.

"Sorry, I hope you don't mind."

His apology was laced with humor, which made me certain that he wasn't sorry at all.

For some reason, his audacity amused me. I chuckled at his woebegone expression and shook my head.

His demeanor was so effusive that the space was alight with cheerfulness and washed with sunshine, even though it was pouring outside the long windows that flanked both sides of the room.

We spent a happy hour at this table and James soon had all of us laughing and joking along with him. Even the old librarian, Miss Charlotte, who rarely cracked anything other than a book, was giggling like a school girl.

To know James, was to love him.

And within six weeks of our first encounter,

I did

And six weeks later,

I killed him.

***WTWAB***

**Author's note: **

Well …

Welcome to What-A-Burger # Unknown!

For those of you who have been following facebook discussions about this story, you might have the idea that this is a humorous spoof on Southern culture, cuisine, and its people.

It's not.

I am married to a Southern man, have Southern children, and I have lived down South for over 25 years. However, as Southerners are wont to say:

"Just because their kids were born here, it don't make them Southern. My dog sleeps in the garage, it don't make him a truck."

Therefore, I will treat this story with the utmost respect. Besides, if I disrespected The South my sister-in-law, Pookie, would kick my ass into next Thursday. ( It will, however, be sprinkled liberally with colorful sayings, and sometimes, rather bawdy, expressions. I mean ... it's the South, not Regency England.)

At the heart, this is a story about friendship, love, and self-discovery. There will be moments of angst, hurt-comfort, friendship, romance, and humor, through-out. Since FF does not have "LIFE" as an option, I have elected to categorize it as Drama.

I hope you will join me on this journey; I am very excited to share it with you!

The first chapter will be posted soon.

Thank you for your support!

Jayne

**PS: I would like to thank Southern Charm and Oldenuf2knobeta for pre-reading, and of course, to Sunflower Fran, my fic Sis, for beta-ing! xxoo**

**Also a BIG thank you to Cared for the fantastic banner! You can check it out on my fb profile. I am Jayne Withay.**


	2. Chapter 2: Shrinking Violet

Welcome to What-A- Burger # Unknown

Chapter One:

Shrinking Violet

**Disclaimer: Now you know I don't own it. But I DO own a two liter bottle of Cherry Sundrop. Don't know what that is? Well, you're gonna have to wait a few more chapters before you find out. ;)**

**This might be a good time to warn you that this story is going to be an emotional ride. Hang on tight!**

When I was twelve years old, I was bitten by a dog, named Happy.

Not once

Not twice

But, three times.

The first time he bit me, I was sitting on Cordelia Atkins front porch reading her dog-eared copy of Little Women and sipping iced tea.

No pun intended.

Cordelia was a friend of my Aunt Margaret, and she was minding me for the afternoon while my aunt readied her classroom for the start of the new school year.

'_Be mindful of Happy, Isabella. He doesn't cotton to strangers and he might snap,' _She said, lightly, handing me a glass of blackberry iced tea and a few of her famous lemon snaps.

I looked at the adorable pug with the Bugsy Malone eyes and smiled. I'd never been allowed a pet of my own and craved to run my fingers through his short bristles and rub the backs of his ears.

As warned, the first time I attempted to pet him, he snapped at my hand, not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a small, impression on my palm.

I said nothing about it to Cordelia, as I was afraid she would take him away from me, and despite the slight bite, he appeared to love the attention I was showing his small, compact body. Non-pulsed, I continued to stroke him for a few more minutes, when he suddenly bit me, this time on the tip of my finger. I pulled back, startled and dismayed.

The bite, though minor, smarted, though not nearly as much as his rebuff did to my heart. I went inside to Cordelia's tiny powder room and quickly washed my hands to rid myself of the blood and disappointment, and then searched vainly for a Band-Aid under her sink.

Freshly bandaged and undaunted, I returned to the front porch with a treat in hand**; **a biscuit I procured from the Premium Saltine tin that rested on Cordelia's gleaming enamel counter.

'_Bella, is Happy behaving himself?' _She called out from her sewing room in the back of her house.

'_Um, yes, Miss Atkins, he is behaving himself. I'm just going to give him a Milkbone_,' I lied, determined to win the affections of Happy, whom I feared, wasn't very happy.

But I would make him happy. I knew I could do it; I'd always loved dogs and I had a treat.

I settled down on the large porch swing and began to rock gently. I decided the best strategy was to make him come to me, so I dangled the bone nonchalantly and continued to read my book in the late afternoon sun. He sat there for a few minutes looking at the bone, longingly, wagging his tail in anticipation. I stopped the swing, patted my lap, and purposely held the treat in front of his big brown eyes.

He hopped up on my lap and ate the bone greedily. Excited that my plan to win his affections had worked, I began to pet him gently. He practically purred in canine ecstasy.

He allowed me to scratch, stroke, and love on him for a full thirty minutes, before he let out a big growl,snapped his body around and latched onto my wrist with a searing bite.

I let out a scream that brought both Cordelia, and Mr. Smith, a kindly neighbor who'd been cutting his front lawn, running to my aid.

By the time Mr. Smith was able to remove Happy's teeth from my arm, I was already in the process of bleeding out on Cordelia's blue and white stripped swing. His bite nearly severed my radial artery.

Cordelia rushed to call the ambulance, as well as my Aunt, who arrived the same time as the massive red and white emergency vehicle.

'_Isabella, what were you thinking? I told you to give Happy a wide berth … He doesn't like strangers and he was feeling particularly peckish today,' _Cordelia chastised, as the EMT lifted me off the porch and rushed me to the waiting car.

I remember my aunt having rather strong words with Cordelia, who continued to blame me for allowing her dog to bite me after I had been more than duly warned.

The lifelong friendship between these two women ended that day, a fact that I mourned and held myself responsible for many years.

As the emergency room doctor stitched my wrist and pumped much-needed blood back into my body, Aunt Margaret smoothed the hair off my face and cried, pitifully.

It was the first time I'd ever seen this formidable woman shed a tear. The sight of her careworn face crumbling over my ignorance on how to make friends with a thirty-pound dog, frankly, confounded me.

'_Aunt Margaret?'_ I asked, drowsily, and just seconds before the sedative the nurse had administered to effect.

'_Yes, Isabella?' _she sniffled discreetly into her embroidered handkerchief, the one with the blue cornflowers. She wasn't the most demonstrative woman, but I felt her love for me as she stroked my hair.

It's funny the things one remembers. For me, that day will always be cloaked in soft white linen, blue flowers, and doused with the tears of a stoic woman.

'_Why?'_

'_Why, what, Dear?'_

'_Why did Happy bite me? I thought he liked me. He let me pet him. I gave him treats. He … I … I thought he loved me …' _I said as I began to drift towards sleep.

'_Sometimes things aren't what they seem, Isabella. Sometimes animals and people turn on a person for no good reason. That's why you have to get to know them well first before you allow them the privilege of your love. Never let anyone, man or beast, work their way into your heart until they've proven themselves to be worth the effort and have earned your trust.'_

WTWAB

James asked me out on a Wednesday afternoon, one week after we'd met in the faculty lounge.

I was returning to the little cottage I rented on the outskirt of campus, when I heard the beep of a car horn. I jumped, startled, and dropped my teaching bag on the ground. I watched in dismay as the tests from my _Intro to British Literature's_ class began to litter the expansive lawns, and the orange that I'd never gotten around to eating, rolled swiftly into the street. I was just about to run after it, (why, I couldn't say) when it was immediately squashed by a white Subaru heading south. I heard a car door slam and watched as James narrowly avoided a Volkswagen Beetle that breezed past him as he darted across the street to assist me.

'_I'm so sorry I frightened you, Isabella!' _he exclaimed, as he scooped up the papers and handed them over to me. The wind was blowing my hair around my face, which was warm and flushed from the encounter. I grabbed my bag and looked, in vain, for the barrette that I wore to keep my long hair in place. I saw James bend over and pick something up which he carefully wiped off with a small, white hanky that he retrieved from his pocket.

'_Allow me?'_ He murmured even as he began to sweep the hair off my face with his gentle hand. He secured the tresses firmly with the ebony and blue crystal barrette, a keepsake from my Aunt Margaret that I would have loathed having lost.

'_You're lovely,'_ he breathed as he ran his finger down my cheek. I blushed, much to my annoyance.

'_Have dinner with me,'_ he asked.

Of course, I agreed to his invitation at once, and arrangements were made for us to have dinner at The Inn, a quaint little restaurant that has graced the Housatonic for well over a century.

I wore a deep, rose-colored dress that I'd bought for a college friend's wedding last year. The color was flattering with my hair and complexion; at least that is what the shopkeeper had declared when I dithered over the cost. But, Aunt Margaret had left me a large sum of money when she passed, which I hadn't touched since her will was read. Besides, I made a decent salary at Haworth-Adams, so I decided to treat myself, accordingly.

'_Don't waste your years saving money like I did, Isabella. Money in the bank provides security, but little else. Enjoy the spoils of your labor while you're still young enough to do so … and you might as well enjoy mine as well; I'm not going to live forever, you know.'_

I remember deliberating over the appropriateness of the dress as I pressed it for my date with James; it was early February and still rather cold outdoors. But I paired it with a soft, cream angora shrug, a new pair of tights, and my gray suede boots. James told me that I looked good enough to eat. I laughed at his remark which was emphasized by a waggle of his brows and broad wink.

We sat for hours that night, talking, laughing, and flirting.

Well, he flirted while I blushed. I wasn't exactly well schooled in the verses of feminine wiles.

Not that I didn't date; I did, occasionally. But the truth of the matter was no one had ever captured my attention and held it for long.

Until James blew into my life and charmed me with his wit and pulse-racing accent, I think, sardonically, recalling our first date.

It was completely and utterly romantic; our table was next to the large stone hearth where a fire burned and crackled, warming and delighting us both.

We both had the baked haddock that was stuffed with Maine lobster and laced with sherry. Conversation and wine flowed smoothly and effortlessly throughout the evening.

I learned that like me, James was an only child. Unlike me, he'd grown up privileged, in a wealthy family, on the Isle of Wight. His father was a Viscount, a fact that he dismissed with a flourish of his hand, stating_," Lords, Viscounts, and the like, are commonplace in England, Isabella. Many families have connections to the crown, but that doesn't make them royalty."_

He asked me about myself, naturally, and I told him the basics, not wanting to run him off, poor fellow.

My childhood was haphazard and unconventional, to say the very least.

'_So, your mother abandoned you to the care of your aunt after your father died'?_ I imagined him saying, as he sipped his wine with a frown.

Because this is precisely the sort of thing most men would have said when they discovered that my mother decided to pursue a budding relationship rather than continue providing stability and care for me in Arizona. What they never would know was that for all her faults, Renee loved me enough to stop flitting through my childhood like a shadow, and so, she gave me to someone who was solid and true.

But instead of making me feel defensive about my harebrained mother, James hadn't said anything negative about her. Not even after I told him that she met Phillipa in Florida while she was there having an affair with Phillipa's twin brother, Philip, and decided that she was, in fact, a lesbian.

'_I'm sorry Bella, I guess I won't be coming back to get you at the end of summer as I thought. You understand though, right? Besides, Aunt Margaret and you have so much in common; two peas in a pod!_

_I didn't mean for this to happen, honey, but I love Phillipa … I never felt this way with any man before … Your Auntie Margaret will explain it to you when you're old enough to understand …'_

But I couldn't wait for Aunt Margaret to explain what a lesbian was, besides, what was 'old enough?' Always the academic, I went straight to the resource room of the North Branch Library in Concord. Between the leather-bound volume of the slang dictionary and the internet, well, needless to say, I received quite an education that day.

'_Just think … If your mother hadn't left you in your Aunt Margaret's car__e, __then you would never have come to live in Massachusetts, nor would you have been exposed to higher education. Those events set you on your own career path, eventually leading you to Old Howie, and ultimately, to me._

_So, a toast … to Renee!'_

We touched our glasses together, lightly, and I flushed with pleasure; he made me feel so at ease!

After our meal was over, James ordered a bottle of Moscato d'Asti and a berry tart with cream fraîche for dessert.

'To complement your dress, and your complexion,' he explained. I laughed at the seriousness of his ridiculous remark but found he appeared to be quite serious. No matter, I was lulled into a romantic stupor by his honeyed words and the effects of the vine.

He walked me to my car and kissed me lightly on both cheeks.

'Spend tomorrow afternoon with me,' he said. 'Let me steal you away for a bit … There's a place I know you will adore … I'll pick you up at one in front of Thomas Hall. Wear slacks and a pink sweater if you have one; I fancy you in pink.'

I ran to the local ski shop at noon the following day and by one stood waiting for him dressed in a pair of gray woolen slacks and a strawberry colored Shetland adorned with snowflakes.

We took a drive to Stockbridge and explored the quaint town that Rockwell had made famous with his illustrations for The Saturday Evening Post. We had lunch at The Red Lion, this time, salmon, grilled to perfection and amply basted with cognac and herbs. Later, we drove to The Norman Rockwell Museum, where I was at once enchanted and amazed by the simplicity of his artistry.

'_When I think of New England, I always think of Rockwell,' _he said, wistfully.

This comment led to the discussion about James' desire to leave England and come to Massachusetts.

'_I always pictured myself living here in New England ever since I was a child, actually. One of my ancestors was on the Mayflower; I found that tidbit in our family archives to be fascinating. I've always fancied myself as somewhat of an explorer; perhaps that's why I took a position where I have to constantly travel.'_

I reminded him that he was soon to replace Dean Bertie and his travel days would be coming to an end.

'_Will you miss being on the road?'_ I asked.

'_I might have had not something new and exciting occurred to keep me tethered to Old Howie.'_

'_And what's that?'_ I asked shyly.

He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into his embrace.

'_You,' _he murmured against my lips.

That date was the first of many, and over the course of six weeks we'd gotten to know each other better. Being a recruiter, James had to fly out occasionally to train his replacement, but most days he met me after my last class ended and we'd go for walks or an outing.

'_Let's go exploring today!'_ He'd say, with a beaming grin on his face. _'Wear something yellow; I don't want to lose you in our expedition!'_

'_Pride and Prejudice is on the telly this afternoon; in Spanish! Want to drop by for tacos, Sangria, and Senor Darcy? Wear something red with a bit of black lace, if you have it!'_

'_Charles Dutoit is conducting a symphony for the Pops this weekend; fancy a trip to Bean Town? Do wear that charcoal skirt with the white lace blouse; it'll match the winter sky.'_

James saw everything in color, and at first, I found that to be a most unusual and endearing trait.

We still hadn't taken our relationship to the next level of intimacy, but judging from his amorous overtures and suggestive murmurings, it was only a matter of time.

I was certain I was falling in love with him.

He was gracious, kind, witty, and intelligent; all the qualities I admired in a man.

And, of course, he had that accent.

I know that was superficial of me, but, I am not ashamed to admit that I always adored a handsome man with a sexy accent, even if it does make me somewhat shallow.

Everything was wonderful those first six weeks. Even the bleak winter months had become warmer with James by my side; he made everything lighter and brighter.

The one snag in my blanket of happiness was Jasper.

Jasper Whitlock was a colleague and my best friend. Tall, blonde, and cherubic, Jasper taught U.S. History. His students adored him. He had a flare for the dramatic and it bled into every facet of his lesson plans. Students who took his classes often remarked that his teaching style was reminiscent of Robin Williams in the Dead Poets Society; he had that same fire for making history come to life.

One of Jasper's undergraduate degrees (he had several) was in Criminology. Haworth-Adams didn't offer a degree in Criminology, but his symposiums on British serial killers versus American serial killers, were popular on various college campuses throughout the New England region.

His other passion was Civil War reenactments, a hobby I found puzzling.

'_Why are you living here in Massachusetts if your interest is in the Civil War? I would think there would be far more of those activities south of the Mason-Dixon Line.'_

'_To get inside the Yankee mind,' _he grinned, taking a bite out of his meatball grinder. A blob of sauce spilled onto his sweater; he was, alas, somewhat of a slob. _'Besides, I'm too fat to wear the uniforms. You've got to be skinny as a rail to get your ass in those costumes._ _Anyway, I am terrified of horses and I hate the heat and humidity. Are you gonna eat those fries?'_

Originally from Texas, Jasper was single, fun, and quirky. We met my first semester at Haworth-Adams and became friendly straight away. In fact, when I decided to take a sabbatical to England, Jasper decided to take one as well; he'd always been fascinated by England's famous criminals and wanted to explore their lives to the fullest.

Although Jasper was known to be somewhat of a drama queen because of his flamboyant personality, he was assuredly, not gay, as I assumed upon meeting him. (A late night of too much drinking at the local pub had brought on a rather heated kiss in the parking lot.) Although it was a fantastic kiss, as far as kisses go,we both agreed that it left us feeling the need to scrub our mouths with the back of our hands. Definitely not the sensation either of us were hoping for, admittedly. We laughed about it the next day and decided that we would remain friends.

One afternoon, when James was out of town, Jasper took me to lunch at The Commons. We shared a plate of Fish-n-Chips with a side of inquisition.

'_How involved are you with James Witherdale?' _He asked, stuffing a piece of beer battered cod into his mouth and washing it down with a pint of Samuel Adams.

I remember looking down at my hands and toying with the bracelet James had given to me the night before he left.

It was a charm bracelet of my favorite Jane Austen Novels; Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Emma, and Mansfield Park.

I loved it and told him so, as I fingered each little silver charm.

'_This one's my favorite,'_ he breathed, as leaned into me and kissed me on the back of my ear.

I remember feeling rather swoony as he plucked at the P&amp;P trinket.

'_This is what you were reading the first time I set eyes on you. It's a classic, just like you.'_

Jasper repeated his question and had glared at me over his lager.

'_Oh, for fuck's sake, please tell me you haven't gone and fallen in love with Happy Gilmore, Bella.'_

Did I mention that in addition to the theatrical, Jasper also had a penchant for colorful language and an abundant appreciation for slang?

I looked at him aghast; surely he must be teasing?

'_Jasper, you can't be serious; this is James we're talking about … Everyone who knows him loves him!'_

'_Pft … Who is 'everybody?' A bunch of pimple faced twits with too much of daddy's money and too little of his intelligence to get them into an Ivy League school? Or a few old windbags, like Bertie, who pride themselves on securing a college recruiter with a handsome face, a good wardrobe, and a British accent to give the school an air of superiority?_

_Please. _

_I'm telling you, Bella, something is off with him; nobody is that 'happy' all the time. I think he's got a whole other side that none of us has seen. _

_I don't trust him.'_

'_But .. But, why?' _I sputtered._ 'He's got a wonderful disposition and a flawless reputation!' _

He gave me a long look, took a swig of his beer, and let out a sigh.

'_Look, I am not saying he isn't the be all and end all; what I'm saying is that something doesn't sit right with me. He-he ...'_

'_What?'_

'_He gives me a hinky feeling.'_

'_Hinky?'_

'_Yeah, hinky.'_

'_And what pray tell is, 'hinky__**?'**_

'_It's a feeling I get when I meet someone who is up to hoo-doo, voo-doo, and other forms of shady fuckery, It's __a term cops and detectives use when they get a bad feeling about someone, Bella. It's sort of like … intuition with a topping of goose bumps. It's a way of knowing.'_

'_Hmm, so what, you're a psychic now? I'm sorry, I didn't know. What do my palms tell you,' I joked, putting them in his face._

_He grabbed them both in his hands and clasped them firmly._

'_Just be careful with him, Bella, Please._

'_And stop saying things like, "Pray Tell." Who the hell talks like that, anyway? I swear you've gotten ten times worse since James started farting around in your life. Seriously.'_

I sat even further back in my seat and frowned. I remember thinking for a moment that perhaps, after all, Jasper did have stronger feelings for me than he'd made known.

'_You … You're not, jealous, are you? Is that what this is all about? Because I thought we both agreed after we kissed that one time, that we …'_

'_No, Bella, just … NO. I'm not jealous. I mean, of course__,__ I love you and you're hot as all get out with those spectacles you wear down your cute little nose, but Darlin … you aren't The One.'_

I laughed at his expression; _The One_. Jasper was quite the romantic; he once told me that he'd known ever since he was a young boy growing up wild in Texas that '_The One'_ was out there somewhere, in this great big world waiting for him to appear. _'I'll know her when I see her,'_ he always said.

I sighed, relieved. At least I didn't have that to contend with, I remember thinking.

'_Just promise me you'll be careful until I get a better feel for him, okay? Now, are we gonna share the Indian pudding or can I have my own this time?'_

I agreed to be careful, but Jasper's words both troubled and prickled me; I was positive he had nothing to fear regarding my involvement with James, and that he had grossly misjudged him.

Besides, after years of a solitary life where I was beginning to think love only existed in dark tomes written by hands of long ago, I was now in the midst of a great romance. Fearing that something might be wrong with the hero was not part of the plan.

After that afternoon, I started drifting away, just a bit, from Jasper. I was certain he was wrong, possibly jealous, whether he admitted it or not, and I didn't want him casting a pallor on my budding romance.

I didn't date much as a teenager, and rarely had time for that in college. And then of course there was grad school, where I was on a fast track to getting my Ph.D. A hopeless romantic, I wanted desperately to fall in love, but I simply never had the time, nor met the right one.

Until James.

He was so attentive and unexpected. I never fancied myself to be the kind of girl who men write sonnets and dedicate songs to; I'm far too plain for that. My hair is brown, as are my eyes, I wear glasses, my chin is too pointy, and my stature is sadly lacking in curves. But James seemed to think otherwise; _'Your skin is like satin, Isabella. When are you going to let me explore all of it; my hands and mouth are frantic with anticipation!'_

That changed the night he gave me the violets.

They were purple, green, lush, and stood proudly within the confines of a white lace nosegay. He'd asked me my favorite flower and presented them to me with a smile on his face and laughter on his lips a week later. I adored them; no one had ever given me violets before and James had those special ordered from Toulouse, France, a village in the Pyrenees Mountains that was renowned for its lavish blooms.

"_James … these are simply the most exquisite flowers I have ever received; how on earth were you able to obtain them? I mean … they must have cost you a fortune … I hardly know what to say,"_ I finished weakly; no one had ever done anything so lavish and nonsensical for me in all my years. I was stunned.

'_Isabella, I have many connections abroad and was able to obtain these easily … As for the cost, well it wasn't anywhere as significant as my feelings are towards you.' _He stated sweetly, kissing me on the tip of my nose.

_She dwelt among the untrodden ways  
Beside the springs of Dove:  
A maid whom there were none to praise  
And very few to love._

_A violet by a mossy stone_  
_Half-hidden from the eye!-_  
_Fair as a star, when only one_  
_Is shining in the sky._

_She lived unknown, and few could know_  
_When Lucy ceased to be;_  
_But she is in her grave, and, oh,_  
_The difference to me!_

I remember practically swooning; the man brought me rare violets _and _was quoting Wordsworth?

Surely he loved me.

That night, during one of the worst thunderstorms ever to cross the Housatonic River Valley, I finally allowed James to slip inside the lavender, 500 thread-count bed sheets and join me in my tiny bed. My heart was fairly flying, as he worshiped, no, ravaged my body, with his hands and mouth.

Was he a good lover? I couldn't say; I'd only had one before him, a rumpled and red-headed Scotsman named Angus, whom I'd met in grad school. He had charmed me with his rolling tongue, and well, his rolling tongue. As previously stated, I always had a thing for a man with an accent.

He'd left at the end of the semester with no talk of a long distance relationship.

'_It's been lovely Lass, but we're too far apart to keep it going, besides, my mother hates Americans.'_

But James was different from Angus, in the art of lovemaking, coarser, somehow, which rather surprised me; he was so gentle in all other areas of his life. He was attentive, but there was something off about the way he kissed my breasts, and, especially, my nipples.

'They're not red enough … I'll rectify the situation,' he murmured, nibbling hard, but just shy of being painful.

I thought that was an unusual thing to say.

His fingers dug into my hips when he finally entered my body, and he held himself in that position, driving and snapping his hips hard and purposefully, yet the rest of his body never actually touched my skin.

Strange? Yes, I suppose it was.

Stranger still was that he didn't kiss me during the lovemaking. Not once. Not until it was over, and then, only on my cheek.

He got up almost immediately afterward and excused himself to "go to the loo" and fetch a bottle of water. But I heard the shower running; he was in there for the better part of an hour.

I lay there listening to the water beating against the windows and the bathwater beating against the tiles. It was a soothing sound, which was good, as I felt oddly, unsettled.

The lovemaking was disappointing … He was too rough. He said odd things …

Yes, all that was true, of course, it was true. But hindsight is a wonderful thing, and I refused to think of those things when I should be luxuriating in the aftermath of our first time. Besides, it _was_ our first time and surely it would get better as we discovered each other wants and needs. So instead of dwelling on the fact that he asked me to change my sheets when he got out of the shower, I decided to concentrate instead on the nosegay of violets sitting on the night stand. The purple of the petals, the green of the leaves … so shy yet so proud …

And the next morning when I awoke there was no James, only a note.

"_Flying to Denver today and shall return home tomorrow evening. Wear something purple, like the violets. Speaking of which, make sure to take care of them and they should flourish for a week or perhaps even longer. I've left explicit instructions on the table. James X'_

I followed the instructions to a T, but a day later they wilted, and despite my careful and loving administrations, they passed away suddenly and abruptly. Rather than toss them into the garbage I attempted to dry them so I could continue to enjoy them in a new incarnation, but alas, that too failed. They became moldy and stank, so I buried them under the banana peels and coffee grounds, praying that James wouldn't ask how they fared.

But he had.

It had started out so perfect.

But then, doesn't it always?

I shake off the memory of the dead flowers and place my hand on the cold glass in James' immaculate bathroom with a bag of frozen peas pressed against my cheekbone. I grimace at the purple and green bruise that is alarmingly close to my temple.

"_Who are you?"_

The face that stares back at me opens her mouth as if to explain, but I close it for her before she has the chance.

"_You can't possibly be Isabella Swan, Ph.D." _I say to her firmly, lifting my chin.

A lone tear, black with Lancôme's Grandiose Mascara, snakes down her cheek, and then falls with a plop, on to her lilac blouse.

I shut her eyes and sit down on the commode with my head in my hands as tears begin to stain the cold, marble floors.

I glance down at the pale scar on my wrist and I am reminded once more of that little dog who fooled me all those years ago.

I remember Aunt Margaret confessed to me later that summer that Cordelia Atkins had finally come to her senses and had put Happy to sleep.

I was stricken and couldn't understand why Cordelia would do such a thing.

'_Some creatures just can't be fixed, Isabella, and no amount of love, affection, or medical science, can set them right.'_

My tears spill onto his spotless, granite counter tops.

'_I'll need to clean that up soon,'_ I think absently, as I reach for the bottle of Windex and paper towels.

I take one look at the blue liquid and promptly vomit all over myself and his pristine floor.

Another mess I'll have to clean up.

**WTWAB**

**A/N:**

Okay, I have to apologize; this chapter is long overdue! I should be posting every two weeks from now until the story closes, if real life permits.

Thank you to my fic Sis, Sunflower Fran, for editing!

A note: This story will have some dark themes. It will get gritty at times. But this story is not angst or tragedy; it is a drama that will have happy times too. It's gonna be a bumpy ride but I promise by the end of the journey you'll be smiling.

**Please review!** It only takes a moment and it means so much for authors to hear readers thoughts and feelings about their work!

Thank you for reading!

Jayne


	3. Chapter 3: Mud Season

Thank you to my beta and fic Sis, Sunflower Fran!

Welcome to What-A-Burger

Chapter Two

Mud Season

In Northern New England, there is a fifth season that occurs between winter and spring.

Mud Season.

Technically, this phenomenon of nature occurs when the roads and paths become mud-covered due to the fact that the deeply frozen ground thaws from the surface down as the air temperature warms above freezing. The snow melts but the frozen lower layers of ground prevent water from percolating into the soil, therefore creating surface layers of soil that are saturated with water, which slowly but surely turns to a sludge-covered murky mess.

I suppose, being a Professor of Literature, I am predisposed always to think in terms of literary devices. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that my mind began to make the analogy between mud season and my relationship with James, albeit, surprising, that the source comes from The Farmer's Almanac, rather than a book of prose.

When I first met James, I was totally mesmerized by his good looks, smooth manners, and his intoxicating, British accent. The fact that everyone on campus (save Jasper) adored him, served to make him all the more appealing. And, if I am to be honest, it made me feel a bit smug; out of all the women in the world, he chose me.

Let me be clear; I am not a timid person. I worked diligently all through my youth and young adult years to gain the knowledge, skills, and the advanced degrees to hold the position of Professor Swan, Ph.D. at Haworth-Adams. This was no small feat. I had to forego the intimacy of friendships and all the social trimmings in order to achieve this. The self- discipline was arduous, and often, lonely. True, I found comfort in my books, and occasionally with like-minded individuals, but it was, for the most part, a solitary existence. Still, despite the way it may appear on paper, I was not an insecure woman. I was confident in my teaching and my classroom was my kingdom of sorts, where I reigned. The young men I taught enjoyed my lessons and they respected my authority, despite the fact that I was a decade or less apart from them in years.

I hadn't set my academic cap on teaching at an all men's college; indeed I had never even given it much thought when my Ph.D. was granted, but it was a natural fit. I had spent my undergrad years teaching at a boy's preparatory school in Boston, so my career path was fueled by testosterone, a fact that frustrated Renee, who was now teaching Women's Studies at Florida State University.

'_Bella, you cannot possibly be serious; a men's college? Why on earth would you want to align your career with such an antiquated concept as a school that only educates men? There can't be more than three left in the entire country … it's absurd! And besides, what on earth could you possibly know about men? Is this supposed to be some kind of payback towards me for being a lesbian?'_

Naturally, Renee always assumed everything I did in life revolved around her, which was laughable. Aside for a yearly visit or two and a weekly email exchange we had very little to do with each other.

My Aunt Margaret had been an educator, and later, the headmistress at a small private school for girls in Concord. After it had been determined that I would stay with her on a permanent basis, she enrolled me at Miss Peabody's Country Day.

It sounds, and was, I suppose, like an elitist school for rich girls. But, surprisingly my life was not made miserable by this institution; far from it; I excelled at Miss Peabody's; at least academically. Socially, I was at a disadvantage; I was two years younger than my peers and my Aunt was the headmistress. Still, if I lacked in age appropriate friendships, I didn't know it at the time; life with Aunt Margaret was like a dream come true. Renee was correct; we were indeed, kindred spirits.

Margaret Higginbotham was already close to retiring when I came to visit her for what was supposed to be just for the summer. A tall woman with coarse features and a rather prominent nose, Margaret was a self-described maiden aunt. Never married, she saturated her life with the arts, in particular, literature, and filled her hours imparting her knowledge and love of other people's words with other people's children. By all accounts she was a marvelous teacher; structured but also creative; she was not opposed to the girls having a day off from their core of studies to simply indulge in reading a book of choice outdoors, providing they gave a full report on the book itself and the way it made them feel, the following day.

I adored this steel haired, no-nonsense woman who shared my affinity for words and long dead authors.

Our relationship went from awkward to something deeper and infinitely fuller after I spent the afternoon getting my sexual education certificate from The North Branch Library.

I had just exited the library and saw her dark gray sedan trailing the tree-lined street, looking for me.

She took one look at my face and drove me straight to Bliss Brothers Ice Cream where we each licked cones and wounds as she waved off my mother's declaration with a dismissal of her hands. Her pronouncement that Renee was always something of a flake and that she expected she wouldn't be returning at the end of summer as she promised. She asked me if I had any questions about sex in general and in specific, homosexuality. _After four hours in the resource room, I could have taught a unit on Women's Studies, so I shook my head no._ To her credit, Aunt Margaret, despite her advanced age and conservative nature, appeared to be non-pulsed about the topic.

'_People are sexual creatures, Isabella. It's in our very DNA to reach out to those we find attractive regardless of one's sex. You'll soon find out one of these days, much to my dismay. I don't know if an old lady like me has any business trying to raise a young girl at this stage of her life, but I promise I will do my best.'_

And she did.

We talked about many things that night, from the practical to the fanciful. That was the night I fell in love with this crusty old woman, who smelled of lavender and chalk dust.

"_When the time comes, you'll know it, Isabella. Love that is. It's wonderful, magical, special, and will make everything right in your world, you'll see. Don't sell yourself short and don't give your __heart or body to a man until you're certain he is the right one. And most importantly, when love finds you, and it will, don't ever let it go.'_

She knew all too well the cost of that of that loss.

'_He wanted me to marry him before he left, but I refused. I wanted to wait for him to return so we could have a proper wedding, with a ten-piece orchestra, eight bridesmaids, and a six-foot train. He begged me of course, but I wouldn't give in; I was always headstrong. _

'_Oh well, no use crying over spilled milk now, I suppose. However, sometimes, at night, I think of Jacob, his sweet face and silly ways; he always made me laugh. And on those nights, I often wonder if I had married him before he left would he have returned to me? It's a well-known fact that soldiers are more apt to survive if they have a family to return home to, Bella._

'_Now then, shall we collect your belongings in person or is Renee sending them to you by post?'_

And with that, my new life in Massachusetts began to take root.

As the years passed, my life became a symphony of rhythm and movement. My aunt provided the structure and allowed me the freedom of expression, which I discovered through her own love of literature and the authors who gave them life.

I went to school with her every day and came home with her every night, where we would read by the fire in the winter and a cool brook in the summer. I missed the heat of Arizona at first, and in the long cold winters, I mourned it most. New England, though beautiful, with its four seasons that were expressed so magnificently, were, unfortunately short in the warmest months and dreadfully long in the coldest. But even so I eventually came to love the mottled gray skies, and to appreciate the stark white grounds, even as I shivered under the massive quilts and comforters that my ancestors passed down through the generations.

Aunt Margaret was a big believer in exercise, although she didn't hold for planned classes within the confines of a chrome and glass gymnasium. Instead, we took long walks in Concord, Lexington, Salem, and occasionally, Boston. It was through these walks that she educated me on the literary geniuses who once stepped on the very grounds we had trod; Emerson, Alcott, and Thoreau, now lay in the ancient cemetery of Sleepy Hollow in a row of graves affectionately known as Author's Ridge.

It was there that I discovered a new hobby, gravestone rubbings, and it's one that I still engage in on occasion. I adored the quaint and often witty epithets etched carefully on granite and marble. Several of them hung in my small cottage much to James dismay, who thought them to be quite morbid.

_'Would you mind terribly if you put them away when I'm here, Isabella? They give me the shivers, and not the good kind like when you're lying in my arms, or better yet, beneath me.'_

I laughed at his silliness but after his remark, I put them away in the small, cold attic, wedged between my aunt's collection of hats and my father's hunting rifles.

Why I did that, I do not know.

_Yes, you do_ … my conscience whispers.

I blow out the voice, but it flickers regardless of my efforts to snuff it out.

wtwab

"Dr. Swan? What happened to your face, did you fall?"

I look up, startled, to see the concern in Jessica Stanley's face. Jessica is my TA, a brilliant young woman whose love for words almost matches her love for men.

Almost.

It's a bit unconventional to have a young woman serve as a TA at Haworth-Adams but Jess is the niece of Stuart Berty. Although she is four years my junior, she is also light years ahead of me when it comes to lessons of the heart, or dare I say, in her case, the flesh? No matter, Jess might be a bit wanton, but she is also one of the smartest and friendliest girls I have ever known. Her concerned face is full of questions.

"Um, yes … I took a bad fall over the weekend," I lie.

_I lied._

_I lied to Jessica Stanley._

My hands begin to shake, and I swallow, almost convulsively. Sweat beads on my forehead and runs into the baby fine hair near my temple.

"Bella, what is it?" Jess asks, all formalities vanishing in the wake of her concern.

I feel like I am going to faint.

_I lied._

My hand sweeps across the violet bruise that I tried unsuccessfully to cover with Dermablend this morning. The woman at the cosmetic counter had assured me that it concealed everything from tattoos to birthmarks.

'_But what it won't conceal is heartbreak, dear. Now I know you said you had a tumble, but this bruise is the mark of an angry man, not a set of stairs, believe me … I know what that looks like. Won't you please let me call someone for you?' _she asked, gently.

I was horrified.

I assured her that this bruise was from clumsiness and not from an abusive man.

_I lied._

I lied to the woman behind the cosmetic counter at Lord &amp; Taylor**.**

I reacted badly then too, barely making it out to the parking lot where I proceeded to vomit the contents of my breakfast beside my car.

"What's wrong with Dr. Swan?" I hear one of the freshman boys, maybe Riley Biers; call out from the back of the room. His voice sounds muddled as if he is under water. I open my mouth but the only thing that comes out is bile, which I force myself to swallow.

"Here, have a seat … You look terrible, Bella.

"Paul, run down the hall and get Mr. Whitlock. Tell him Dr. Swan needs assistance."

I try to protest; Jasper is the last person I want to see right now, but I can't form the words because I am suddenly hyperventilating. Jessica forces me to sit in a chair and hands me a small paper bag which she miraculously produces from her Kate Spade satchel. Jess is one of those women who should have been in the audience of Let's Make A Deal. If Monty Hall had asked for a piece of hardware, hard candy, hardcover book, or even hard tack, Jess would certainly have it in one of her expensive and massive handbags.

My stomach is queasy and I feel the telltale signs that my breakfast sandwich is about to make a reappearance. Gathering my last ounce of strength, I manage to squeak out an, "Excuse me," and dash as fast as I can to the ladies room.

Once there, I eliminate my breakfast, and after I rinse my mouth, I sit on the toilet trying to get myself under control.

I glance up to see a poster of a young woman covered in bruises.

'_Are you, or is someone you know, the victim of domestic abuse. If so, please call …'_

Oh, Jesus … The irony doesn't fail me even now and I have to fight back a chuckle.

Could this morning _get any worse_?

"Bella, are you in there? Are you all right? Jessica says you took a bad fall and now you're in here puking up your guts!"

_And it just did._

I'd been avoiding Jasper for weeks; his flood of emails, texts, and voice messages were proof that he was none too happy with the change in our relationship. He'd even sent me a small bouquet of wild flowers with a note of apology. I grimace, remembering …

"BELLA!" His voice rises to the rafters and his fist pounds on the door.

I sigh, roll my eyes upward and clear my throat.

"I'm fine, Jasper, really. I just need a few moments to freshen up and I'll be out in a second. Tell Jess to put my lesson on the projector and I'll be with her presently."

"The fuck you are. Jessica has your class under control so get your ass out here right this minute before I take the damn door off."

I let out an inward groan and tentatively open the door to face the music.

"_Jesus wept_, what the hell happened to your face?"

"I fell down the stairs last night."

_I lied._

_I lied to my best friend._

_I lied to Jasper._

He walks over to me and takes my face in his hands to examine. Without any forethought, and much to my dismay, I flinch and step back.

And in that moment, he knows.

I close my eyes and clench my jaw waiting for his onslaught of words to begin the verbal attack on James, but none comes. I open my eyes to see, much to my horror, his, filled with tears.

"What has he done to you?" He whispers.

He walks over to me and takes my face carefully in his hands, examining. I watch, fascinated, as his mouth hardens into a straight line and his eyes turn from watery compassion to fiery rage.

"_**Where is he?"**_

I step out of his arms and walk over to the sink and splash some water on my eyes, careful not to disturb what little cover-up I have left. If Jasper sees the whole truth behind Dermablend # 4, he'll have a stroke.

"If you mean James, he is in Boston today and won't be back until tomorrow. But this," I say, pointing to my bruise, "has nothing to do with him; I fell down the stairs yesterday."

Which isn't exactly a lie; I had fallen down.

Right after he slapped me across my face.

Jasper sighs and walks over to me at the sink. I feel his eyes on mine and catch them in the mirror. I quickly avert my own from his steely gaze as he takes me by my shoulder and turns me around to face him.

"Bella, how many degrees do I have?"

I look at him, puzzled. He gives me a penetrating stare, quirks his brow and awaits my reply.

I sigh in resignation.

"Four."

"Yes, _four_. And out of those four degree's which one is my true passion?"

I close my eyes and groan.

"Hey … answer me."

"I don't know; you-you're passionate about all of them …"

"Bullshit."

I let out a huff of air through the side of my mouth. But Jasper is like a dog with a bone and won't let it go until I bite.

"Criminology?" I mutter.

"Bingo."

"Well, that's fabulous, Jasper. Look, I have to go to class and relieve Jessica. Maybe we can talk later, okay?"

"NO, we're talking now. I've already had Paul cancel my classes and yours for the rest of the day. Here's your purse and your bags; now let's go back to your place," he says, firmly.

WTWAB

One hour, two cups of tea, and three snifters of brandy later, Jasper knows the rest of the story ala Paul Harvey.

"So you mean to tell me he just hauled off and slapped you over some dead, fucking flowers?"

"No! I mean, well, yes. He did sort of hit me after he kicked over the trashcan but it wasn't about that. We'd been arguing over something else …" I drifted off, uncomfortably.

"What?"

I avoid his eyes, reluctant to draw him in. I don't want to talk about the events that led up to James striking me.

He hit me.

I'd never been struck by anyone before. An only child, I'd never been roughhoused or even had my hair pulled, let alone slapped and pushed. It was not just painful; it was mortifying.

And completely unexpected; James had never been anything but gentle with me.

_That's not entirely true_, my conscious nudges …

I blush, remembering his aggression in the bedroom. The second time he'd made love to me he took me from behind and had wrapped my hair so hard around his fist that my eyes bulged and I cried out in pain, begging him to stop.

But he didn't stop, not until he climaxed in a panting, crushing heap on top of me.

"Look, Bella, I know I told you that I didn't trust this guy a few weeks ago and right after that you started pulling away from me; I'm not stupid. But you have to understand; your safety and happiness are important to me. I don't have many friends and that's intentional; I simply don't trust people until I've gotten to know them and generally after that happens, I end up not liking them _because _I don't trust them. It's a vicious cycle.

"When James came around I could see the stars in your eyes. I know Berty practically had an orgasm in his pants when he heard James was courting you; hell, everyone was over the moon; Mr. Perfect meets Professor Swan; it seemed like a match made in Harlequin Heaven.

"But I didn't trust him.

"His manners and happy-slappy personality seemed as phony as his accent to me. So, after you stopped answering my calls and texts I decided to do a bit of investigating on Mr. James R. Witherdale."

I let out a gasp and promptly knocked over my snifter of brandy.

"Hey, calm down … I knew you'd be pissed about it, but Jesus, Bella, look at your face and tell me I did the wrong thing by checking on him."

"I know … but you should have asked me how I felt about it first, Jasper."

"What, so you could tell me to butt out and that you could handle him yourself, because, again, go look at your face. I'd like to clean that asshole's clock. If he were here right now, he wouldn't know whether to scratch his ass or wind up the cat after I got through with him. When is he due back anyway?

"Tomorrow night. We're supposed to have dinner …"

"_What?_ No. No way are you having dinner with him tomorrow night or any other night on the Julian Calendar."

"I'm not. I-I just have to get a few of my things from his apartment and then it will be over, I promise."

"I'm going with you then."

I start to protest, but the look of determination on Jasper's face tells me it would be in vain. Besides, after our last encounter I am afraid to confront him by myself.

"Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"You know we have to go to Berty about this, right?"

"What, _no_, Jasper; I don't want to get him in trouble at school just because of a minor physical altercation. Besides, he was very apologetic when it happened and I honestly believe it took him as much by surprise as it did -"

"STOP."

Jasper's voice cuts through my excuses for James' behavior like a knife through bullshit, vulgar as that analogy might be. My face crumbles at his simple command and I bend over at the waist and weep. He wraps his arms around me as I cry and begins to talk to me softly, but firmly.

"Bella, come on … You have to know how cliché you sound right now making excuses for him. There is NO excuse for a man to hit a woman and you know that. I don't give a shit what his reasons were, he had no right to strike you. Jesus, think about what your Aunt would say if she were alive or what your mother _will _say if she ever finds out."

I sit back on the couch and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. Jasper reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bright blue bandanna, an article he always has on his person, and one, which I find both charming and amusing. I sort of half chuckle and half sob as I blow my nose.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I found out about James?"

I look at him and hold my breath waiting for his answer.

"Nothing."

"What do you mean nothing?"

"I mean, I wasn't able to find out anything about him that was less than circumspect. He grew up on the Isle of Wight, attended Oxford, and graduated with honors. Beyond that I don't have any details; I'm still waiting for my friend to send me his personal investigation. He is supposed to run a complete background check on him and fax it to my office. Of course, I already checked his files here at Howie and there doesn't seem to be anything amiss, but I can't help shake the feeling that this guy is as phony as a football bat.

"Now, are you ever gonna tell me why he hit you?"

I let out a sigh and my eyes wander over to the kitchen counter where a vase of daisies sit, drooping. Jasper had sent them to me last week as a form of an apology.

Jasper catches my eyes and I swear I can hear the click as he makes the connection.

"Oh, _fuck_ … It was because of me, wasn't it? He was jealous."

I nod my head, remembering how it all played out.

I had made dinner that night; roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, James' favorite dish. He'd just returned from a week-long college fair in the Midwest. He seemed agitated and anxious as soon as he entered the cottage. He kissed me too hard and his fingers dug into my shoulders and neck. He didn't seem at all himself as he paced the rooms while I dished up our meal.

'_What's wrong, James? You seem a bit unsettled … did you have a rough week?'_

He gave me a small smile and walked over to hug me.

I no sooner wrapped my arms around him when the answering machine started up.

'_Hey, Bella … it's me, again. Listen, when are you ever going to return my calls? Look, I'm sorry if I pissed you off the last time we were together. I know you don't want to hear it about James. Okay, I respect that. Sort of. Okay, fuck it that's a lie … I don't trust the man. But please don't shut me out. You know how I feel about you. Did you at least get my flowers? I know daisies are your favorite.'_

And in that moment, I saw James' face morph from being sweetly apologetic to something darker and unfamiliar. It was disturbing yet fascinating; his entire being from his expression to his posture changed dramatically.

_Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_.

That was my first thought.

Even his eyes, the bluest and happiest eyes I'd ever seen, had grown dark and stormy.

I tried to step out of his embrace, but his fingers clung to my shoulders, biting into the flesh and held me fast.

'_Where are the violets?'_

'_Wha-'_

'_Where are the goddamned __violets I gave you?'_

I shook my head in astonishment. Where was all this coming from? I backed up slowly against the counter, but James never let go of my shoulders. His eyes bored into me, demanding answers.

And that was when I felt it; that tiny fission of electricity, the one that I had felt when I first met him in the faculty lounge at the end of March. At the time, I thought what I was feeling was excitement, but just then, as I stood in his pinching grasp and felt it again I knew I'd been wrong.

It wasn't excitement.

It was fear.

He pinned me against the counter and reached over to press the button on the answering machine.

_You have one new message and fourteen, saved messages._

Another punch of a button and all fourteen messages began to play, one after the other.

_Bells, it's me. Listen … I'm sorry you're upset with me. Please call me._

_James is out of town; can I come over?_

_Hey, Bella … I'm standing at your door with a box of Archie's famous pizza in my hand. Are you home?_

_Bella, it's Jasper, again. Listen, we really need to talk. I miss you._

_Okay, this is getting ridiculous. I'm coming over tonight after my symposium. I'll bring some wine._

_Hey, me again. You weren't home. I left the flowers on the steps; did you get them?_

I put my hands against James' chest and shoved him off me.

His reaction was to knock the answering machine to the floor where it fell with a thud. Jasper's messages came to an abrupt end.

'_James … I don't understand what's wrong with you, but you need to leave.'_

'_Why, so he can come over to take my place? Tell me, "Bells," just how long did you plan on stringing me along anyway?'_

'_What?'_

'_You heard me … How long have you been shagging him?'_

'_I'm not … we're not … we're just friends.'_

'_I'll bet. A friend with benefits is more likely._

'_Now then, I'm asking once more … What did you do with the fucking violets that I had specially flown in from France?'_

'_James that was weeks ago._ _I tried to dry them, but they got moldy. I finally had to throw them out…'_

He turned away from me and kicked over the trash can. The contents spilled out on the tile floor. He bent over and picked up what was left of the violets and shook them in my face.

'_I thought these were special to you but I can see how you treated them. You tossed them aside the second I walked out the door and replaced them with his.'_

'_James, you're acting ridiculous.'_

'_Ridiculous? You're calling me ridiculous? I'll tell you what is ridiculous … You having the audacity to stand before me and lie to my face.' _

'_I'm not … I'm not lying. Jasper is a friend. He's my best friend. We've …'_

And that's when it happened.

His face turned purple and he raised his arm up and struck me hard across my face.

You know the expression, "I never saw it coming?" Well, that wasn't the case here. I did see it coming. It was as if it happened in slow motion; the flex and curl of his fingers, the tightening of his fist.

Unfortunately for me, even though it seemed like an eternity before it connected with my cheekbone, my reaction was also in second gear. I was rooted to the spot.

The impact of his assault sent me flying back and I fell down the short flight of stairs that led from my kitchen to the sunken living room.

I lay there on the floor, stunned.

He hit me.

I began to cry.

No one had ever hit me before.

'_Isabella … I … are you hurt? Oh my lord … what have I done?'_

I crouched away from him in fear.

'_No, no … please … Darling, I'm so sorry. My God, are you all right?'_

I close my eyes and wince, remembering the act of contrition … How he tenderly scooped me up into his arms and tried to cuddle me against his chest, murmuring how sorry he was into my hair … begging me to forgive him. I shake my head trying to rid it of the memory, but it clings to the recesses of my mind like Saran Wrap.

"So, what happened after that; did he just leave?" Jasper's voice breaks through my barrier and I look at him, nodding.

He pours me another shot of brandy and offers it to me with a shaking hand. I can tell he is upset so I put my hand on his to offer comfort. He squeezes my hand lightly, in return.

"Yes, pretty much. I mean, he tried to apologize and assure me that nothing like that had ever happened before … that he had a bad day … that it would never happen again. He seemed as disgusted with himself as I was."

I feel Jasper's body go rigid and he slams his snifter on the cocktail table. I watch as he composes himself and turns towards me taking my face carefully in his hands.

"Okay, surely you're not thinking that is going to be the case, here, right?

"Men who hit women always say that kind of shit. You do know that, Bella. Please tell me you know that."

"I know that. I'm not stupid, Jasper."

"I didn't say you were. It's just that I've seen this kind of thing before. I had an older cousin who was married to an abusive bastard and she always forgave him, time after time."

"How did she manage to get away?"

"She didn't. He killed her."

"I'm sorry, Jasper … I didn't know."

"Her name was Candace; Candy. She was the sweetest girl I ever knew. Beautiful, smart, had everything going for her … But when it came to men, she was a bum magnet. She got married right out of college to this loser and the whole family tried to warn her after the first time she came in the door with a black eye, but she wouldn't listen. She always believed his bullshit about how sorry he was and that it would never happen again.

Blah, blah, blah.

But the thing was, it DID happen again. And again and again and again … it just about killed my Aunt and Uncle to watch her go from this vital and carefree girl to this ghost of a woman.

"What happened to the husband?"

"He killed himself before the police arrived."

"I'm sorry Jasper."

"Yeah, well, it happened a long time ago; I was just a kid, but I never forgot."

I turn to hug him and he wraps his arms around me and sighs.

"I don't ever want to see someone else I love go through something like that, so please promise me that whatever you had with James Witherdale is over. Promise me?"

"I promise."

"And promise me that you won't go anywhere near him without me."

"I promise."

But I crossed my fingers just in case.

WTWAB

I meant to keep that promise.

I swear I did.

But the next day Jasper texted that his Granny Whitlock had suffered a stroke. He had to fly out to Tyler, Texas and begged me not to go see James by myself.

I didn't think twice.

I broke my oath.

_To Jasper._

_My best friend._

I wanted it to be over.

I was sick with dread and anticipation all day long.

I simply couldn't wait another moment.

So I went.

Alone.

Twice.

I didn't hesitate, not even after I heard the frantic messages from Jasper on my machine.

_Please, Bella … don't go over there alone. Wait until I come back. That fax I was waiting for from England arrived this afternoon. _

_Bella … Are you listening to me? _

_The James Witherdale you know isn't who he claims to be. _

_Damn it, girl … answer the phone!_

_Jesus Christ … Where in the hell are you? You never answer your cell phone and you never read your texts._

_I didn't want to do this over the phone …_

_Bella …_

_James Witherdale is dead. _

_He was killed in a car crash six months after he graduated from Oxford. I've got a copy of his death certificate right here in front of me_

_Don't do anything stupid. We'll confront him together in Berty's office the minute I return._

_Please call me as soon as you get in, okay?_

And now, as I kneel over the bloody body of the man whom I knew as James Witherdale, frantically checking for a pulse

I realize with sudden clarity

I should have listened to Jasper.

****WTWAB****

**A/N:**

_I lied_

I lied to my readers.

This update is much later than I promised.

The simple truth is this:

Every time I opened this document I fell asleep before I could kill James' ass.

If you're still with me, thank you from the bottom of my heart!

XO Jayne

Please review!


	4. Chapter 4: The Lying and the Lam part 1

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, only this story.

I would like to thank my beta and friend, Fran, whose editing skills are much appreciated. Although she gets after for me for "tweaking," I am sometimes unable to resist. Therefore, any mistakes you see in this story are my own. I would also like to give Stephanie (Southern Charm) a big thanks for taking the time to pre-read!

Welcome to What-A-Burger # Unknown

Chapter three

The Lying and the Lam: Part One

"A woman, especially, if she has the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can."

Jane Austen

***WTWAB***

Why would an intelligent woman with a Ph.D. be stupid enough to confront a man who'd struck and bruised her, alone?

I am not an impulsive person by nature. Spontaneity is not one of my character traits; if anything, I am known to be pragmatic and predictable.

So why did I grab my car keys and dash over to James' house after I promised Jasper that I wouldn't?

I wish I knew.

All I know is that I had been dreading the confrontation with every fiber of my being. I'd hardly slept the night before; my heart was heavy, my mind was full.

And my cheekbone hurt terribly.

I canceled my morning class and took a long walk along the Housatonic River, trying to clear my head and to gain some perspective. But every step I took reminded me of James.

'_I love that you wore your green sweater today; look how it contrasts with the green of the trees and the gray of the river.__Perhaps the yellow scarf I bought you will bring out the sun. You must wear it tomorrow!'_

I shudder when I think of how charming I thought those comments were when he made them. Now I can see they were just plain bizarre.

The images of his laughing eyes made me want to run back to my cottage and hide for the rest of the day. However, I'd promised myself that I would not indulge in that type of behavior as I'd already given James far too much control of my life already. So I hastily decided the best course of action was to go straight to his place and collect my things while he was still gone.

Jasper had texted earlier to let me know that his grandmother had had a stroke, so he was flying to Texas, and wouldn't return for several days. He begged me not to approach James alone, but I ignored his pleas. I needed to be done with this man once and for all. Besides, James wasn't due to return until late in the afternoon.

I arrived at the apartment building shortly after twelve. The complex was brand new, so new, in fact, that it wasn't officially occupied by anyone but James.

'_It pays to have connections in all the right places, Isabella. Look … Twelve fully furnished units, all sparkling new and uninhabited by anyone except for yours truly. At least until next fall …'_

Still, I was nervous about being there alone, and I made certain to glance several times over my shoulders lest someone be lurking. I sighed in relief when I saw that I was quite alone.

I entered his apartment easily enough. The code to his front door, which I happened to notice when he keyed them in the first time he took me there, were the same numbers as my birthday; 9-13-1986. At the time, I'd thought it charming, although I realize now that I'd never shared my actual birthday with James at all.

I went through the front door and heaved another sigh of relief when I discovered my teacher's bag was sitting near the leather sofa exactly where I'd left it several days earlier. It was stuffed with thumb drives for the final exams. James had promised that he would bring it with him the night he arrived back from his trip, only he hadn't.

James' apartment, though spacious, was devoid of color and personality, even the pictures on the wall were generic and bland. In addition, there was something off about the way I felt the few times I visited him here, so we mostly hung out at my cottage, which James preferred, or so he said.

'It's as comfortable as an old shoe; just like you, darling.'

In retrospect, I should have ended things with him then; comparing one's significant other to a shoe; an old one at that is not exactly romantic or the least bit flattering.

I set my purse down and grabbed the large Michael Kors satchel that Jessica had given me for my birthday last September. I glanced around for the jacket I'd also forgotten, but it wasn't in sight. Frustrated, and aware of the time, I looked inside the massive closet in the hall adjacent to his master bedroom, but it wasn't there.

Nor was it lying on his bed, a bed that I had never been in since our relationship turned to intimacy.

Intimacy …

I nearly laughed out loud at the irony; our relationship was far from intimate, I could see that as plain as the bruise on my face.

My eyes scanned the interior of his bedroom. It was large, spotless, and as sterile as a cotton ball. As was his granite and marble ensuite. There was nothing there to indicate that a human being ever used this facility. His shower was devoid of life; no shampoo, soap, or even a stand of hair in the drain to suggest recent use.

Curious, I exited the bath and walked over to what appeared to be the door of his bedroom closet.

Locked.

I remember thinking that was odd; who on earth locks their bedroom closet?

_Someone who has secrets,_ my intuition warned.

I ran my hands over the top ledge to feel for a spare key.

Nothing.

I sat on the edge of his bed and pondered what he could possibly have tucked away in his closet that necessitated it to be locked.

My mind began to conjure up all sorts of possibilities that ranged from body parts stuffed in garment bags to a red room of pain a'la _Fifty Shades of Grey_.

I glanced at my watch and sighed. It was going on one o'clock and I needed to make haste, lest James returned earlier than planned.

I was about to retreat from the room when I suddenly had a memory of my Aunt Margaret.

She was always hiding things under her mattress.

'_It's such a cliché, that no thief would even think to check there nowadays, Bella. This is where I'm putting the insurance papers and my grandmother's pearls!'_

I knelt down and ran my hands between the mattress and the foundation. My fingers paused when I felt something metal. I fished it out and sat back on my heels in amazement.

It was a sliver key!

Thank you, Aunt Margaret.

I walked back to the closet and inserted it in the lock. The door opened with a creak and I peered inside, holding my breath at the unknown.

I let out a scream, clutched my heart, and felt my knees begin to buckle at the sight before my eyes.

Dozens of mannequins, all fully clothed and arranged in various poses, stared at me with painted eyes.

I stifled another scream, while I stood, transfixed at their lifeless faces. I swallowed convulsively as the bile threatened to rise from my throat.

Frightened yet fascinated, I noticed that every square inch of the walls were covered with what appeared to be clippings from magazines and catalogs.

It was like a scene from the Twilight Zone; I nearly expected Rod Serling's ominous voice narrating the fact that I had taken a wrong term at the signpost.

All of the clothing appeared to be arranged by color, fabric, and function. Outerwear to the left, casual garments to the right, formal attire in the center, and his shoes and boots were stacked neatly according to style on a series of shelves in the rear. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it revolved and that there were actually several rows of garments, one behind the other.

_A clothing carousel_ ….

A sudden memory of a movie I'd enjoyed as a girl came to mind_; Clueless. I_ recalled that the heroine, based on the Jane Austen classic, Emma, had one of these contraptions in her closet.

Fascinated, I pressed the button located on the side of the doorway.

My mouth dropped as I watched the rows of clothing whirl past me in a blur of color and fabric.

Slacks, dress shirts, jackets, suits, tuxedos, shorts, polo shirts, tennis whites, dress blues, and business casuals, paraded around the room like some kind of macabre fashion show.

A row of assorted hats buzzed past and I grabbed at them helplessly like a child trying to secure the golden ring from a Dobby horse at a carnival.

Leaving them to trot on by, I walked over to the center of the room where a massive cabinet stood, littered with notes, tags, labels, and what appeared to be swatches of fabric. To the rear of the cabinet was a dressmaker's dummy with a note pinned to its side that seemed to be some sort of instructions.

***White dress shirt**

***Red tie with dark blue stripes**

***Dark tan slacks. Flat waist no cuffs**

***Haworth-Adams cuff links (Gold, embossed with college crest)**

***Single breasted navy blazer with gold buttons**

***Overcoat (in case of rain; be sure to check weather report before leaving)**

***Cordovan loafers, with tassel**

Puzzled and bewildered, I looked around the room in awe.

This wasn't a gentlemen's closet; it was a costume shop!

And that's when it hit me like a ton of bricks

James Witherdale wasn't simply a college recruiter groomed to become the next Dean of Admissions: he was an actor playing a part.

And judging from the outfits flying past, he was playing more than one role.

I slammed my fist on the button and the closet carousel came to a grinding halt with a sickening screech.

My heart pounded as I fingered the costumes carefully.

I reached for a familiar looking jacket, plucked off the tag, and took it over to a small banker's lamp that was plugged into the cabinet. I turned on the switch and looked it over carefully.

**Returning from the Moor on a rainy day **

**1\. Wax cloth Barbour**

**2\. Wellies**

**3\. Khakis**

**4\. Change for vending machine**

**5\. White handkerchief with Witherdale monogram (In case she weeps)**

In case _she_ _weeps?_

My knees finally buckled and I fell to the carpeted floor with a thud.

James had sought me out.

I wasn't some random woman he met by chance.

He hunted me, Isabella M. Swan, PhD.

Specifically

I.

Was

His

_Prey._

The air began to feel stale and suffocating as I imagined a tomb might feel hours after the coffin lid was closed.

I scrambled to my feet and dashed for the door, knocking one of the mannequins on its back.

His lackluster eyes stared back at me; his alabaster arm pointed in my direction, accusingly.

Grimacing, I picked him up and set him right, straightening his formalwear as best I could.

My stomach began to lurch and I darted for the opening of the door quickly, only to slam face first, into the door jam.

_'Fuck!'_

The curse word, unexpectedly, flew out of my mouth.

I never swear; not ever. Jasper would have been proud.

At the thought of Jasper, I burst into tears.

_What in the ever lovin hell were you thinking, darlin?_ I could hear his words as plainly as if he had been speaking directly into my ear.

My hand sought out my already bruised cheek and I checked it frantically for blood. I was relieved to note that it only appeared to be swollen.

I fled to the kitchen and opened the sub-zero freezer in search of ice cubes, but there was nothing more than a solid block of ice. Frustrated, I grabbed a bag of frozen peas and placed it on my aching face.

I dashed to the bathroom and stared at my face for ages, trying to reconcile the image before me with the person I knew myself to be; a strong, educated woman who was worthy of respect and love.

I threw up, violently,and then cleaned the mess with a bottle of Windex and paper towels. The clear blue of the cleaner made my stomach churn, but I cleaned the mess as best I could and dumped the wad of debris into the bin where it landed with a plop. I bagged the trash and put in a fresh liner, increasingly aware of the passage of time.

Although I had no desire to return to the closet, I had no choice; I didn't want James to know that I had been in there rummaging through his things.

I went back in the costume shop, (for I refused to call it a closet) and reluctantly, straightened it out as best I could; praying that he wouldn't spot anything amiss. After thirty-odd minutes, my task was complete. I began to walk back into his bedroom and tripped once again just at the opening of the door. This time I caught myself before I fell, but when I looked down to see what, if anything, I was tripping on, I happened to notice a small impression in the rug. Putting the light back on, I knelt down and ran my fingers over the lush, beige, floor covering. My fingers paused as I realized it was a square of carpeting that served as a patch,concealing something underneath its plush fiber depths.

I managed to pluck it out by lifting one of the corners with my barrette.

There, under the square, was what appeared to be a trap door. It had a small, brass ring which I pulled upward to see what it was hiding.

Inside the hallowed out flooring was a large box. I lifted it out carefully; anxious to see what was inside but at the same time, also dreading it; oh, the hideous possibilities!

But I needn't have worried.

For all my imagination that was already conjuring up the dried out skull of a woman who had, unwittingly, crossed James's path which led to her unfortunate demise, it was nothing of the sort. I let out a huge sigh of relief.

It was an old-fashioned Rolodex, the kind my aunt used for her numerous professional contacts, long before the invention of the Blackberry and thumb drive.

I flipped through the cards rapidly, trying to see whose names were listed and for any other information that might shed some insight into James's head.

I didn't have to look long.

**Kirsten Arnold:**

**Age 25**

**Recently came into **a **2.5 million dollar fortune upon the death of her mother, Irene D. Maxwell, a distant relative of the Maxwell House Coffee Corporation.**

**Plain**

**Librarian**

**Single**

**Currently lives in Newport, Rhode Island.**

A large red **X** anchored all four corners of the card with a scribbled note:** Married in June.**

Shaking, I sat back on my rear end to secure myself lest I toppled. This man was a predator and possibly insane!

I didn't bother reading the profiles in chronological order, although there appeared to be hundreds of names. At that point, I was only interested in one.

My heart sank when it stopped on the name I knew would be lurking inside its cardboard depths under the letter **S**.

**Swan**

**Isabella Marie **

**Age: 27**

**Occupation: College Professor. Haworth-Adams **

**Brown hair**

**Brown eyes**

**Average build**

**Single**

**Came into a fortune via inheritance from Aunt Margaret Frances Higginbotham (mother was a Barclay from Beacon Hill)**

**Quiet, unassuming, likes long strolls through the forest and Jane Austin**

**Anglophile**

**Estimated worth: 5.8 million dollars**

'_Bella, I know you'll find this hard to __believe, since__ we have always lived so simply; but when I die you will become a very wealthy young woman. My mother was a Barclay; she was the daughter of a wealthy banking tycoon from Boston. Please don't let that prevent you from becoming all that you are; I never did. I want you to enjoy this money; spend it as you wish, but don't tell any man who fancies you anything about it before you are certain he holds the key to your heart._

_Promise me?'_

I had nodded at her in astonishment; she'd never given me any indication that she was wealthy nor had I ever thought to ask about her family history.

_I was his prey._

Shaking and distraught, I shoved the Rolodex back into its hiding place and covered it with the carpet square. I looked through the closet carefully and it appeared to be in the same order as when I first entered it an hour earlier.

_I was his prey, I was his prey, I was his prey …_

The words kept circling around my brain like a hawk.

I grabbed my keys, and teacher bag then exited the apartment as fast as I could, considering how badly my knees were shaking. I vomited in the bushes and fairly threw myself in my car. I have no remembrance of driving to my cottage, or entering in my front door.

But once inside, I began to calm. Jasper will tell me what to do, I thought to myself. He'll make it right.

I listened, absently, to my messages while I brewed a pot of tea; Celestial Seasonings Tension Tamer. Jasper had bought it for me only yesterday, claiming if ever a tea was more aptly named, given my situation, he couldn't think of one.

_Bella, Jesus Christ … where in the HELL are you? You never answer your cell phone and you never read your texts._

_I didn't want to do this over the phone …_

_James Witherdale is dead. He was killed in a car crash six months after he graduated from Oxford. I've got a copy of his death certificate right here in front of me_

_Don't do anything stupid. We'll confront him together in Berty's office the minute I return._

_Please call me as soon as you get in, okay?_

I dropped the kettle I was holding and the water sloshed all over the counter, badly scalding my hands in the process.

'_Fuck!'_ I screamed out loud for the second time that day.

I ran my hands under cold water trying to remove the sting and pain of both the burn and the confirmation that James Witherdale was not only a predator, but also not James Witherdale at all.

So, then … who _was_ he?

The burns on my hands were worse than I thought, but I had no time to run myself to the college nurse (a gossipy old biddy on the brink of retirement) who was bound to ask too many questions, so, I put on some Neosporin and bound them in soft white bandages. Once that task was done, I knew I had no choice but to call Jasper and tell him what I had found in James' apartment.

_He is going to be furious with me_, I thought to myself as I picked up the phone.

The phone in my hands began to ring before I even finished dialing; talk about timing!

'_Jasper!'_ I cried in relief.

_'I was just about to call you. Listen, I know you're going to be __angry with me, pissed, as you say … but, I decided to go over to James' place and get my things; I just had to be done with that man._

_I got your texts about your grandmother's stroke and I know you were en-route to the airport; I hope she's okay._

_But listen, before you start to scream at me, I wanted you to know what I discovered about James while I was there. I know for a fact that he isn't who he claims to be, I knew it before I even listened to your voice-mail __telling me that he's an impostor. _

_You-you need to come home as quickly as you can … We need to go to Dean Berty and call the police … We …,'_ I babbled incessantly.

I heard a throat clear, followed by a familiar chuckle that didn't sound at all like Jasper's.

My blood ran cold.

'_Three things, darling._

'_One, this isn't your beloved Jasper, __it's James._

_And two, I already knew you had been here earlier today, mucking about my closet, and sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. _

_Tsk, tsk … I found your treasured barrette with the blue sapphires lying on the floor near the door. You're so very careless, Isabella; a real life absent-minded professor if there ever was one._

_Pity, you and your beloved Jasper, couldn't have kept your mutual suspicions to yourselves, darling.'_

I began to whimper.

_Which brings me to number three; Jasper isn't in Texas, we, bumped into each other at Logan this morning just before he boarded and had quite the riveting chat.'_

MY heart dropped to my stomach and my phone fell to the floor. I wrapped my hands around my knees and began to rock back and forth like a child trying to soothe myself from a nightmare. I closed my eyes willing myself to wake up, for surely this had to be a bad dream.

But I could hear his enunciated, oh so very British words, as clearly as if he was sitting beside me, letting me know that I was, in fact, very much awake.

'_Oh, and four … _

_If you ever want to see your chubby, odd little chap again, I suggest you pick up your keys and drive back over here for another visit; he's starting to chafe from the restraints._

'_Now then … Shall I make tea'?_

***WTWAB***

**Author's Note: **Part Two is mostly written and should be ready soon.

I know I was an epic fail at responding to reviews last chapter so an apology to those I missed and a big thank you to all!

Jayne

xo

PS: If you haven't read the one shot I wrote last weekend, "I'll Always be Your Edward," why not give it a whirl? It's a quick read and an homage to all the wonderful fic writers in this crazy place we call home!


	5. Chapter 5: The Lying and the Lam part 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Edward, Stephenie Meyers does. However, I do like to play with him from time to time. Just like everyone else does. ;)

A BIG thank you to Fran for editing and to Southern Charm for pre-reading! And a special thank you to my son, MTC, who helped me find my way and provided me with some wonderful ideas, including a bit of dialogue!

The Lying and the Lam

Part Two

"The distance is nothing when one has a motive."

Jane Austen

Tucka-THUCK-tucka-THUCK-tucka

The old Ford wheezed, groaned, and passed noxious fumes at every toll booth and exit ramp, but the tires are good and the radio still works, so, even though, there's nary a cup holder, or more importantly, air conditioning, I feel safe inside its chrome and rubber cocoon.

_One way or another, I'm gonna find ya'__  
__I'm gonna get ya', get ya', get ya', get ya …_

I shudder when the oldies station I'm listening to blasts out the words that bracket my very existence.

I shut the radio off with a slam of my hand.

Jee-je-je-Jee!

I'm not very good with a stick shift, but my aunt insisted I learned how to drive all manner of vehicles over the years.

'_One never knows when one might be in a situation where they must drive an unfamiliar vehicle, Bella.'_

I suppose, fleeing the scene of a crime in an old truck that used to belong to Jasper's grandfather was, indeed, a 'situation.'

Somehow, though, I doubt this was the type of scenario Aunt Marge imagined when she issued this particular warning.

Bllgh blllgggh blllllgggghh ….

I watch in dismay as the small black arrow pushes past the center line and begins to point past the tiny thermometer.

Steam gushes up, but rather than pull over, I turn the heater on full blast, just as my aunt instructed me to do should an engine start to overheat. Sweat beads on my forehead and runs down my nose, landing with a plop on my denim covered legs.

I don't bother to brush it off; they're already soaked from my tears.

**WTWAB#U**

_'Which brings me to number three; Jasper isn't in Texas, we, bumped into each other at Logan this morning just before he boarded and had quite the riveting chat._

_Oh, and four …_

_If you ever want to see your chubby, odd little chap again, I suggest you pick up your keys and drive back over here for another visit; he's starting to chafe from the restraints.'_

With James's dire words ringing in my head, I fled my little cottage as quickly as my size seven and a half shoes allowed.

I flung open the door of my car, tossed my pocketbook on the seat, and did a wheelie out of the driveway. The cloud of dust blew all around me, but I barely noticed; I was in such a state.

I arrived at James's apartment in far less time than it ought to have taken me and found a spot under a large Elm tree.

Grabbing my handbag, I shoved the door open so hard and fast that it swung back, nearly knocking me off my feet. My hands, still bandaged from the scalding water, must have ached terribly as I rustled to close it, but I was too distraught to notice.

The moment I stood in front of his door, however, my knees began to shake and my head was suddenly full of doubt and self-recriminations.

Why on earth hadn't I called the police?

Because, when it comes to men, you, my dear, are what your dear Aunt Margaret would call, 'A real no-head.'

Nevertheless, before I could second guess my sanity for standing there in front of James's, sunny, yellow painted door with an even sunnier sunflower wreath, it was flung open by James himself.

_'Isabella!'_ He cried. _'How good of you to come; and so quickly too!'_ His blue eyes gazed upon me happily.

I stood there with my mouth open, completely struck back by his happy and effervescent demeanor. But just as I was about to voice my bewilderment regarding his change of tact, I saw his eyes harden, just a fraction, but enough to jolt me back to reality.

_'Where's Jasper?' _I demanded, as I pushed past him and dashed into his foyer.

_'My, my … you can be quite forceful when it comes to him, my dear. Such a shame you couldn't have shown an ounce of that passion when you were lying beneath me only a few nights ago. I believe I might have actually enjoyed that; you really aren't much of a lover, Darling.'_

My cheeks burned with indignation and I found myself doing something I never imagined; my hand reared back and slapped him, viciously, across his smug face.

His reaction was swift.

He grabbed me by the hair and slammed me face first, into the large mahogany desk, knocking a benign framed photo of a sunset over the ocean, onto his pristine, marble floor. It fell with a crash, the glass splintering across the tiles like diamonds. I lay over the side of the desk, staring at the soft hues of the picture. It was surreal yet oddly comforting.

_'Now then, shall we start over?'_ He whispered in my ear. I felt the soft drag of his tongue lap against my neck and I bolted upright.

When I saw the anger and lust in his eyes, I knew I was in real danger.

I attempted to run from him, but he caught me quickly and easily.

_'Where do you think you're going, Isabella? We've only just started to play …'_

_'Jasper!'_ I screamed at the top of my lungs.

At this, James burst into laughter.

_'Oh, Bella, Bella, Bella … did you honestly believe your precious Jasper was here in my apartment? Oh, that is rich!'_

_'But-but you said …' _I stumbled over my words.

_'I heard of Jasper's grandmother's stroke and his immediate departure when I stopped by my office before returning home. Of course, I couldn't have timed my call to you any better than if I scripted it myself. You really should have a caller ID; why that contraption you call a telephone is positively archaic … it still has a cord for heaven's sake!'_

_'So Jasper isn't here; he's in Texas?" _I cried, angry at myself for being so naïve, but grateful that my friend was alive and safe.

_'He's probably sitting by old Granny Whitlock's side right now offering her tea and sympathy while holding her poor decrepit little hand even as we speak._

I breathed a huge sigh of relief

_'Of course …_

_He might be gagged and bound somewhere in that comical farm house he calls home._

_I really can't remember._

_What I do know is …_

_I know something you don't know' _… He sang.

My pulse started racing.

_'And I plan on keeping it that way_

_for now.'_

_'No, James please … tell me where he is,' _I begged. But he only grinned from ear to ear and shook his head, then cocked it to one side, considering.

_'Why Isabella … what have you done to your hands?'_

He came towards me and took them gently in his grasp.

I jumped back, but he refused to let go.

_'Let me look at them.'_

I stood there holding my breath while he unwound the bandages, slowly and put them in his pocket.

_"These may be useful in the future,' _he winked.

_I have some salve in the kitchen. It's under the counter; the one where you left the bag of frozen peas.'_

I winced.

_'You're so sloppy, Isabella. First the peas then the purse … and let's not forget your treasured barrette. I found it just inside my wardrobe._

_Tut-tut'_

How could I have been so stupid?

_'Who are you?'_ I choked. _'I know you're not James Witherdale … you-you're a phony and some kind of a psychopath!' _I shouted_._

_'Well, you're partially correct. I am not James 'Witherdale.' _

_But I am James._

_ Allow me to introduce myself to you properly … after all; we already know each other in the biblical sense, do we not?_

My eyes filled with tears and the fear I felt was now laced with sadness; this was the man I thought I loved.

Perhaps it was something in my expression, but I swear in that moment I saw a shadow of genuine regret cross his face, one that told me there was another man locked inside this demon. He reached out his hand and stroked my cheek softly.

_'James … please …'_

But he only shook his head hard and the moment passed. His face hardened and his posture changed. He released me and began to circle the room like a vulture plotting his attack.

_My name is James, James Hunter. _

_James Witherdale was a distant cousin of mine. We never met, but my grandfather assured me I was a dead ringer for him. I always found that description to be both delightful and apt, given his unfortunate, yet fortuitous death._

_As for being a psychopath, well … they never were able to define my, er, condition, Bella. I suppose I was a psychological cocktail; a jigger of psychopath, a shot of schizophrenia, a finger of bipolar, a dash of bitters. Shaken, stirred and muddled with a variety of fetishes. Served straight up, with a twist of sexual deviancy; rocks on the side._

He continued to chuckle at his words merrily, as if I had told a great joke. I glanced quickly at the door, trying to gauge how fast I would be able to make a run for it, but he tracked my eyes and frowned.

_'You're not going anywhere, Isabella.'_

I heard the flat tone of his voice and began to shiver fiercely. He didn't sound anything like the man I thought I had fallen in love with, even the clipped enunciation of his accent had changed.

He lunged forward and dragged me, by my hair, to his bedroom where he tossed me on top of the four poster bed, where I landed with a thud.

_'James, NO!' _I begged.

Undaunted, he crawled the length of the bed towards me and I shrank back as far as I could, fearing the worst.

_'Aw, we've already had the slap, now it's time for the tickle …' _

Adrenaline coursed through my veins and gave me the strength to cock my legs back and shove him hard in the chest.

I rolled off the bed and ran to the door. I flung it opened and screamed. In the dim light, I had mistakenly run to the closet door instead of the one that led out to his hallway. The mannequin I'd knocked over earlier greeted me at the entrance and sneered as if to say, "Foiled again!"

James was immediately on my heels. I grabbed the smiling mannequin and used it to ward him off. But he knocked it aside and shoved me hard against the wall. The clothing carousel started up at once; I must have accidentally pressed it with my body. The garments brushed between us allowing me enough time to grab another mannequin.

But James was impervious; he cast the dummy aside, grabbed my hair, and flung me on top of the large cabinet. The banker's lamp fell to the floor with a crash; he brushed the papers and clippings aside as I squirmed and struggled beneath him.

_'It didn't have to be this way, Isabella. I had no intention of killing you. Why couldn't you have simply remained ignorant? I was planning to marry you. _

_And your money._

_What a pity you had to provoke my ire last week. Admittedly, I did forget to take my meds._

He leaned into my ear and whispered_,__ "I forgot to take them today, as well.'_

I let out another scream, but it was muffled and weak.

_You know, I've never actually killed anyone before, well, aside for my Vetty British cousin, James. _

_It was so easy … just a few loose lug nuts and a rainy night in Merry Old England._

_Dreary old England would be a better name for it … I didn't have to wait long for the skies to open up. Shame really … _

_It's too bad I was so much taller than him; our resemblance was uncanny. I might have been able to have assumed both his identity and his fortune, but, unfortunately for me, James Witherdale could only offer me his identification and his degree._

_Old Berty just LOVED hiring a graduate from Oxford University.'_

_'If you kill me, he'll know … everyone will know. Jasper will come looking for me,' _I cried.

_'Yes, well, by then I will be experienced …'_ he murmured in my ear as he tore the shirt from my shoulder. The buttons flew in the air and were lost in the blur of clothing as they buzzed on by.

_'Ah, the pink bra … such a shame; you know I favor you in yellow … _'He whispered as he groped my breasts and bit my neck, hard.

I brought my hands down on the crown of his head with all my might and he was momentarily distracted. Not long, but long enough for me to hop off the table.

But he pounced with the finesses of a cat and threw himself on top of me. I heard the sound of his zipper and I realized then he had more than murder on his sick mind.

Frantic, I rolled around, kicking and screaming with all my might. My hands clawed for something, anything that would prevent him from carrying out his deed.

I grabbed a hard object that was biting into my back and with every ounce of strength I had left in my being, smashed it square on James's temple.

His face looked stunned at my attack and he rolled off me and onto his back. Blood gushed out of his head and pooled on the light carpeting, staining it bright crimson.

_Oh my God, I've killed him. I've killed him._

Why didn't I listen to Jasper?

I dropped the object that was still clenched in my burned hand and stared at it blankly.

The pale gleam from the dismembered, alabaster arm of the tuxedoed mannequin, the one with the blonde hair, so much like James, pointed towards the doorway as if to gesture my exit.

I didn't have to be told twice.

****WTWAB***

I headed straight to Jasper's, two-hundred-year-old farmhouse that sits nestled between rolling hills and pastoral fields and is flanked by the headwaters from the Housatonic.

I tried to call him on the cell as I left James's apartment, but it went straight to voice-mail. I debated about attempting to contact his family in Tyler to make sure he was there, safe and sound, but I didn't want to worry them unnecessarily.

Of course, what I should have done was to drive straight to the police station and turned myself in.

I know that now.

But I didn't.

There are times when a woman doesn't make the right decision**;** when everything in our being tells us to do one thing and we automatically do the exact opposite. This was one of those times.

Instead, I drove at record speed, plowing down the forsythia bushes at the foot of his long, gravel driveway. I didn't even miss a beat until I pulled up in the front of his red house with the white shutters and metal roof.

I grabbed my bag and dashed to the rear of the house, yelling his name loudly. I found the skeleton key he hid in the flower box and dropped it three times before I was finally able to insert it in the lock; my hands were shaking so badly. Once inside, I tossed my pocketbook on the counter and knocked over a can of Chock-Full-Of-Nuts coffee. Coins scattered over his checkerboard floor, but I didn't stop to retrieve them.

I went from room to room in search of him, fearing the worst. But he was nowhere to be found. I searched high and low (the low being the root cellar where I prayed no creature, including Jasper, would be hiding. One time Jasper had found a black snake casually eating a rat and he told me the story with a mixture of disgust and boyish glee.) There was no sign of him anywhere, so I went out back to see if he might be bound and gagged in the barn.

He wasn't.

But his pet rooster, Foghorn, was there, flapping his wings and clucking his throat like it was his full-time job with benefits. Normally I give him a wide berth, but his presence comforted me that afternoon. I tossed him some dried corn from the pail that Jasper has hung on the side of the door and that seemed to placate him as I looked around the barn.

I searched the stalls, loft and even his Grandfather Whitlock's ancient pickup truck, which was no small task. Jasper had the bed stuffed with Civil War Regalia and uniforms, (which he ruefully lamented, _'They no longer fit,'_ but he was loathed to part with them, _'Just in case I ever get bored with French Fries and lose some of this pork.')_

Frustrated, I tried his cell again.

_You have reached the number for Professor Whitlock. I'm sorry I'm not here to take your call right now but if you leave me a message I swear on my great-great-great grandfather's grave, who died at the Alamo, to call you back._

Beep.

I shoved my phone in my pocket and headed out to the vast apple orchard in the back of his property. The orchard produced thousands of apples every fall and Jasper made a tidy fortune from his annual harvest. He was hesitant about leaving it last semester but when his students heard about his dilemma they rallied together and conducted the harvest in his absence. Jasper donated the money they collected to the new History Center at Old Howie.

Though it was still early May, the apple blossoms were already in bloom due to an unseasonably warm spell in Western Massachusetts. Though the late afternoon sun was low in the sky, there was still enough light to navigate my way freely through the groves. From my vantage point, I had a panoramic view of Jasper's property. I put my hands together and shouted for him repeatedly, but there was no response.

I was just about to make my way back to the car when I heard the sound of wheels crunching the gravel on Jasper's long and winding driveway.

I stopped mid-step and froze. Though I hoped against hope it was Jasper or perhaps one of the boys who came to feed Foghorn, I knew it was unlikely.

I was too far away to run for my car or the house, so I hid behind a large Macintosh tree and held my breath while I waited to see who it was.

I heard it before I saw it; European engines always purr.

My pulse began to race.

No, no, no …

The unmistakable sleek gray hood of James's Mercedes pulled up next to my white Subaru.

My body had gone rigid, just for a second, before I forced my legs to move and run behind a dense grove of trees. I watched in fear, as James hobbled out of his car and peered into mine.

My heart sank when I saw him open the door and reach for the keys I had left in the ignition. He stood there with one hand on his bandaged head and another on his hip as he surveyed the land.

_These bandages might come in __handy later, Isabella …_

I inwardly cringed as his words came back to taunt me.

_How is he still alive?_ I remembered thinking.

A memory from my childhood resurfaced.

I had struck my head on the large industrial can opener in my aunt's basement one long ago summer day when I was helping her put up the spoils from the harvest. I bled so much that I was certain I was going to die.

'_A few stitches and you'll be just fine, Bella. Head wounds always look like they'd keep the Red Cross in business for several decades.'_

I hadn't checked for a pulse. I thought he was dead.

I was wrong.

_Dead wrong._

_He isn't done with you, yet, Bella. Not by a long shot._

James went to the front door and slid something, perhaps a credit card, into the lock. I watched him as he peered over his shoulder and then went inside the house.

I debated about running to the barn so I could hide, but instinct told me to stay where I was.

Why instinct couldn't have kicked in when James Witherdale first came into my wake, I will never know.

What I do know is that minutes after he went into the house he was back in the yard scanning for me.

'_Isabella … come out, come out where ever you are,'_ he sang into the dusk.

'_I know you're here, Darling. I've got your car keys …'_

He circled around the front yard looking for me. I didn't move a muscle.

I watched as he strode into the barn and heard the flapping and crowing of Foghorn, followed by, '_Ouch, God-damn mother-fucking chicken!'_

I might have laughed had I not been so terrified. Jasper would have a field day over the fact that James apparently didn't know the difference between a hen and a cock.

He came storming out holding his nose and screaming obscenities and threats.

I watched in fascination and horror as he struggled to compose himself.

'_Isabella, I don't want to hurt you, sweetheart; I just want to talk to you … _

_Please come out. I know you can hear me … I know you're close; I can smell you._

He sniffed the air appreciatively and I nearly gagged.

'_Pear and Magnolia … my favorite scent …'_

He looked up at the orchard and I watched him begin to creep closer and closer to my refuge. I walked, stealthily towards the other side of the trees as his taunts began to echo in the growing darkness.

I flitted between the trees, moving away from him as he began to climb the side of the hill that was opposite of where I stood.

'_You can't hide forever Isabella. _

_I didn't want any of this to happen, but you had to provoke me._

_Did you think me dead? _He laughed.

I shuddered, listening to him carry on his taunts and provocations.

'_It takes more than a piece of plaster to do me in, I'm afraid.' _

Obviously.

He stood in the grove far a few minutes scanning the horizon. I knew he was looking for movement, so I stood as still as my shaking knees allowed.

'_I'm a tracker; a true hunter. It's in my blood, hence my family name. Blood trails, game lanes, the scent of prey __huddled and afraid, the stalking of the stag. God help me, I love it. _

_Go ahead then … run!_

_I'll even give you a head start.'_

I held my phone under my shirt and flipped it open wondering how long it would take for the police to arrive. The nearest station was at least fifteen miles away, but surely, someone would be on patrol?

I was just about to key in 911 when his taunts began anew.

'_But, I promise I will keep track of you, Isabella._

_If you tell anyone about me, I will find you and kill you._

_But not before I kill your scatterbrained mother and her dyke girlfriend. _

I cringed at his choice of word; what an utter cad; he certainly was not the politically correct and sensitive man I thought him to be.

'_You know, I have access to all the information in the college files, including the address for your next of kin.'_ He laughed, sardonically.

I forced myself not to cry, faint or vomit.

'_It's the end of the term, Dr. Swan._

_Finals begin tomorrow. _

_Jessica will be more than happy to administer the exams._

_She's such a romantic little fool; she'll believe me when I call her and tell her we've eloped._

_As for Jasper … _

_One phone call from you should convince him not to call the authorities. _

_But I don't think he will. _

_Not if he wants to keep his pulse._

_Perhaps old Janie Austen will help you find the right words to use to convince him._

_But if he does_

_I will end him_

_I'm very good at that, Isabella._

_Just ask my cousin, James Witherdale._

_Oh, that's right … you can't_

_Because he's already dead!' _He laughed, maniacally.

He stopped talking for several minutes and I panicked; thinking he was nearer to me than I'd thought. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw his shadow stretching across the apple orchard to the far west from where I hid.

I started creeping down the hillside, moving toward the barn and away from his shadow. I knew if I could see his then he could see mine and I prayed that he continued to keep to the left as I kept to the right.

I was terrified.

When he began speaking again, I almost lost it completely and gave myself away. But I managed to stifle my screams and stood as still as a statue.

'_Oh, don't worry darling … if you want to return to your fabulous Old Howie next year, be my guest. By then I will have a new identity._

_You can tell your slut assistant that I ran off on you. She'll love that …_

_What is it that Mr. Bennett said to your lovely Elizabeth? _

_Oh yes,_

"Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then. It is something to think of and gives her a sort of distinction among her companions."

_But if you come back before August, I'll blow the place from here to Bean-Town. _

_Now then, come out of hiding, Isabella, and we'll work out all the particulars together. _

_The devil is always in the details, isn't that right, Darling?_

Twilight had given way to darkness and the fullness of the moon afforded me enough light to make my way down to the barn.

I went in the back door and grabbed the set of keys that were hanging on a beam. Foghorn stood on the hood of the truck watching me with his knowing eyes as I cranked the engine. I tried to shoo him off but he refused to budge. I saw him peering over his shoulder like a soldier ... A sentinel preparing for flight or fight. I prayed that James would not make good on his threat to kill him. I watched as his feathers began to rustle and his frightened cackles pierced through the stale air as he continued to watch me intently. I knew then that I had no choice. I hopped out of the truck, scooped him up, and tossed him into the cab alongside me.

Forgive me Jasper …

With lightning speed, I started the engine, threw it in gear and plowed through the double barn doors. Wood splintered around me as I put my foot on the pedal with all my might.

I didn't release it until I was half-way to Connecticut.

****WTWAB****

Thuck-thucka-thucka-thuck-tuck

bllgh blllgggh blllllgggghh

Pffft ….

The truck wheezes, jolts, and huffs one last gasp for air before it finally gives up the ghost and comes to an abrupt stop.

I sit, stranded, on the side of a road, in God-knows-where, North Carolina, stunned.

My fingers, white as bone, clench the wheel, refusing defeat, while my foot continues to pound the pedal to the beat of my thumping heart.

Dead.

Oh God, dead.

I put my head down on the wheel in acceptance.

I knew I couldn't run forever, but I wanted to protect those I loved.

I couldn't even protect myself.

**Bang-bang-bang!**

I jump back, startled, certain that I am going to see a pair of Windex blue eyes staring into the window telling me that the hunt was over.

Instead, I see two women dressed in bubble-gum pink uniforms staring back at me, smiling. One is tiny and dark-haired. She has a small kerchief pinned to her short, brunette, cap of curls. The other girl is tall, blonde, and Rubenesque. She too, has a matching calico kerchief secured on her head. I notice the badge on her lapel says _Rosie._

They gesture for me to roll down the window.

But I can't.

My hands are glued to the steering wheel and refuse to move.

They nod at each other and the tall girl goes to her car, a red Jeep. I watch her take out a wire hanger from the trunk, which she expertly manipulates into a single strand with a small loop. She approaches the truck slowly and inserts the hanger into the window. I watch, fascinated, as it snakes down and pops up the lock. She swings the door open and carefully plucks my hands from the wheel.

"Are you okay, sugar?"

I take one look at her large, periwinkle eyes and promptly burst into tears.

"What's wrong with her, Rose?"

"I think she must be in some sort of shock.

Mary-Alice, get Daddy's tonic from under the back seat. It's in my makeup case; not the blue one, the pink one with the ivy."

The tiny girl nods her head and trots off to get Daddy's tonic.

I blink my eyes a few times and try to speak, but nothing comes out except a gargled sound.

The beautiful blonde sweeps the hair from my forehead and pats my shoulder, sympathetically.

"Here it is, Rose. I brought a pack of Virginia Slims and a lighter, too."

"She don't look like a smoker to me, Allie."

'No, but I figured you could use one."

"Lord knows. Now here, take a swig of this, Hun. That's right. Try to swallow it. Good."

The liquid dribbles down my chin, but I manage to swallow a tiny bit. The scorch of the alcohol burns my throat and I cough and gag, but it seems to do the trick because I finally find my voice.

"I thought … I thought I killed him … but I didn't, he's still alive … how is he still alive?" I babble, incoherently.

She stands there, hands on her hips, and stares at me, nonplussed. A flicker of a smile spreads to a full on grin and she nods her head in understanding.

"Well, honey, sometimes killing those little bastards can be tricky. Now, why don't you get out of the truck and we'll help you figure it all out.

Bless your heart."

******Welcome to What-A-Burger # Unknown!******

**Thus ends the first arc of the story. Whew! Just when you thought James was finally done in ... **

**The second arc of this story will see some great changes for our heroine. I liken her arrival to NC to that of Dorothy's house suddenly dropping in the middle of OZ. That's when all the color is infused, and life, for her, will really begin.**

**What color you ask?**

**Hmm, I'm sort of leaning towards ...**

**Bronze.**

**Thank you so much for all your support with this story. I know I am sometimes slow to update but I promise you that it will be easier to update during the summer.**

**Jayne xo**

**PS: I apologize for the use of the D word. James is a politically incorrect asshole. I, however, am not.**

**Please Review!**


	6. Chapter 6: Over the Rainbow

Disclaimer: I don't own only thing I own are 100 reviews telling me that Bella should have gone to the police. LOL! Don't I know it! But when has that girl ever had an ounce of self-preservation or a lick of common sense?

Thank you to my beta, Frannie and to Matt and Stephanie for pre-reading!

Welcome to What-A-Burger # Unknown

Chapter Six

Over the Rainbow

"The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain."

Dolly Parton

"_Bless your Heart."_

Still in shock, I sit in the cab staring in bewilderment at the smiling blonde.

Had I just told her that I'd attempted to kill a man?

Yes, yes I had.

And instead of screaming at the tiny girl named Mary-Alice to call the police, she only grinned at me and acted as if I'd merely told her I had eggs for breakfast.

"Honey, I don't mean to be rude, but what in God's name is that smell? Lord-a-mercy; it smells like a barnyard in here."

At her words, Foghorn woke from his slumber and began cocking and doodling from his perch in the back of the cab. I'd kept him up front with me for hundreds of miles, but his constant wing flapping and eliminate of waste on the seat rattled my nerves and offended my olfactory senses. I found some mesh and a crate in the bed of the truck when I stopped for gas and constructed a makeshift cage. Still, I kept him close to me as I went from town to city and from counties to states. I finally had no choice but to put his cage in the bed of the truck, nestled between Jasper's gray officer's cape and his great –great-great grandfather's canteen.

That was somewhere in New Jersey … When I finally had the courage to pull over and call Jasper.

I grimace now, as I recall the conversation.

Needless to say, it hadn't gone well.

The first thing I said was …

'_Thank God … you're alive!'_

To which he replied …

"_Alive? Why the hell wouldn't I be alive?" _

Followed by …

'_Where in Jesus name have you been, Bella? I tried calling you half the goddamn morning. Please tell me you got those messages I left you regarding that fucker. I barely made it to Logan and almost turned around twice when I couldn't get in touch with you!'_

I sat there quietly, trying to find the right words to let him know all that had transpired, but they simply refused to come forth.

The silence grew between us and was marred only by a single seagull that squawked constantly and defecated on the windshield. I turned on the wipers and the poop smeared from left to right as I tried to gather my nerves and the words to explain. But I needn't have bothered because as soon as the familiar squeak and drag of the dull blades pierced the night air, Jasper spoke.

'_Bella, where are you?'_

I let out a deep sigh.

'_I'm in New Jersey,' I whispered._

Silence.

One, two, three …

'_New Jersey! What in the hell are you doing in New Jersey; don't you have your first day of finals tomorrow?'_

'_Yes, I do, but …'_ I trailed off, lamely.

'_But what?_

'_Look, unless you've suddenly developed a gambling problem or have a strong need for salt water taffy there is no way you would be in Jersey. You'd better start talking, fast.'_

'_I …'_

'_Oh Jesus, no, please tell me this doesn't have anything to do with James. I knew I should have turned around in Springfield, Christ! Are you, did he …'_

'_No. I mean, yes, I did have an encounter with him, but … I mean, I thought, he tried, I …'_

'_Tell me everything,' he demanded. _

_Now.'_

So, I did.

I told him how I had gotten up that morning determined to end things with James but that I needed to get my belongings and my life back, first. I told him that after I got his text telling me that he was flying to Texas and wouldn't be able to go with me to the apartment that I decided to go regardless; I knew James was out of town and that he wouldn't be home.

I told him that I found James's secret costume shop that was locked and barred but that I'd found the key and gone inside.

I told him about the mannequins.

I told him about the clothing carousel.

I told him about the notes pinned to the clothing and the files I found.

I told him about the Rolodex

that was hidden under the carpeting.

I told him about the names of the women he had listed alphabetically.

I told him that all but mine were marked with a large red X.

I told him that James had handpicked me from hundreds of women and that he knew that my aunt had left me her small fortune.

I told him all this in between sobs and broken sentences. To his credit, he didn't interrupt me until I paused long enough to take a sip of the acrid coffee I'd picked up when I stopped for gas. The heat had long ceased to be, but it soothed my parched throat and I gulped it greedily.

'_So, what did the police say when you called them?'_

Silence

'_Bella, please tell me you called the police and turned his pasty-faced-scone-sucking-ass in?_

_Bella?'_

The seagull swooped overhead and let out another loud shrill and I jumped in my seat, bumping my head against the roof. The headliner was in bad shape; Jasper had tacked in up as best he could with dozens of map pins. One of them nearly became embedded in my scalp, and I cried out, in pain.

'_Jesus H Christ … Are you okay? Did he take you? Is that why you're calling me from Jersey? Tell me where you are … did you manage to escape? Don't hang up, sweetie; I'll call the police from the house phone. Just stay on the line and I'll …'_

'_No-no, I'm fine … he didn't take me … I escaped back at your farm ...'_

'_My farm? What in the world were you doing there? _

His yelling, clear as a bell from far away from Texas, woke up Foghorn and he began to flap his wings and cock accordingly.

'_Is that … what the fuck … is that Foghorn?'_

'_Yes.'_

'_Do I even want to know why you didn't call the cops, went to my farm, took my rooster, and are sitting somewhere in the Mid-Atlantic?'_

'_No, probably not._'

'_I didn't think so.' _

He let out a big sigh.

'_Tell me everything._'

So, I did.

I told him that after I returned home from James's apartment that the phone had rung as I was trying to call him. How I spilled my story about breaking into James's place and everything I had discovered, blithely unaware that the entire time I was actually talking to James and not to him as I'd first thought.

I told him that he informed me that he had run into him at Logan and that if I wanted to see my chub, er, friend alive that I'd better get back to his apartment pronto.

'Okay, so tell me again why you didn't immediately call the police?'

'Because, James threatened to kill you if I did!' I yelled.

'And …?'

'And?'

'_AND … all the more reason you should have gotten your bony ass straight to the police and reported his tail. I can't believe you would have been stupid enough to fall for his shit; I told you the man was a fucking freak and fraud right from the get go, but would you listen? No. And now look where you're at; sitting in the middle of East-Bum-Fuck in a fifty-year-old Ford with a goddamn cock between your legs.'_

I giggled in spite of myself.

For some reason, all the tension from the last couple of days began to bubble forth and left me in a series of snorts, snuffles, snickers, and finally, shouts of uproarious laughter. I couldn't stop myself; I was like a volcano that finally erupted after years of being dormant.

Foghorn chimed in with his unapologetic squawks that sounded as if he, too, was letting out some much-needed steam.

To his credit, Jasper didn't say a word until my emotional outburst subsided.

'_Are you finished yet, or should I give the two of you another minute to get your shit together?'_ he inquired, politely.

Of course, this only set me off once again but this time he did interrupt.

'_All right, enough of this crap; I am going to the house phone right now and calling the police.'_

That doused my laughter quicker than a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.

'_No! You can't go to the police, Jasper. Please! James is crazy; he told me that he would kill you, my mother, her girlfriend and me __if I didn't give him the summer to let him establish a new identity. You have to promise me you won't go to the police. He told me he was a tracker and that he would keep tabs on me; he said it was his family business ; that he descended from a long line of trackers and hunters.'_

'_Okay.'_

'_Okay?'_ I was stunned silent.

'_Yep, okay. Don't go to the police. Go to your mother's and stay there for awhile. I'll handle that little prick._

'_But he said that if we called the cops he would …'_

'_He's full of shit, Bella. He was playing you; can't you see that? Anyway, it doesn't matter; I don't need to call the police to end his god damn shenanigans. Besides, that's what he wants me to do anyway; I may as well give the baby his bottle.'_

'_What are you talking about?'_

'_He wants me to find him, plain and simple. He's a tracker, so I'll give him something to stalk._

_And when he's staring down the barrel of my grandfather's musket, then I'll blow his snowy ass back to The Isle of Wight, where the good ole boys of Scotland Yard can deal with him.'_

'_I don't even think he's English; his accent changed dramatically after he lured me back to the apartment.'_

'_Tell me everything you know about him including all the details that happened at my place._

I told him that after I'd driven to his farm and gone from room to room looking for him; that I'd been up in the apple orchard when I heard James's sleek Mercedes coming down the gravel drive.

'So what did you do then?' he interrupted.

'_I hid behind an old Macintosh and watched him get out of the car, go over to mine, and remove my keys from the ignition. Then I saw him go around the back of the house and go inside.'_

'_Bella, at any time during this encounter did it ever enter your pea brain to call the police?_

_Of course it did; I'm not stupid, Jasper,'_ I said in a huff.

'_Sorry, I know you're not stupid. I just can't, for the life of me, understand why you didn't go directly to the police after you left his apartment. Even if he had kidnapped me and were holding me there, you still should have had the sense to call the cops.'_

"_I know, I know I should have, Jasper, but I didn't. I was scared out of my wits and terrified that he'd hurt __you, or worse__, had left you for dead. I didn't want to take the time to explain myself to the police and possibly delay the hunt for you,'_ I finished off, weakly. No matter how I tried to justify my actions, they sounded lame, even to my own ears.

'_Okay, I'm sorry; please continue.'_

'_Well, after awhile he came out of the house and went into the barn. I heard Foghorn clucking and flapping madly at him and then I saw James running out of the barn holding his nose a few minutes later, yelling that he was going to kill that "fucking chicken" as soon as he dealt with me._

'_He called him a chicken?'_

'_Yes.'_

'_Christ he's so dumb he could throw his ass to the ground and miss. I can't believe this idiot has been able to pull the wool over anyone eyes, including Berty's and the board.'_

'_I should have killed him when I had the chance,' _I cried. Then I cried harder when I realized I wished that I had killed someone; I never thought I'd feel that way in my entire life.

'_Yeah, well, if you'd have gotten your damn nose out of Austenworld and occasionally watched The Walking Dead you would have known the fundamentals of how to properly destroy a monster._

_I stopped mid tear. 'What?"_

'_The first rule of thumb; always tap them twice.'_

I laughed again, in spite of myself. Jasper's sense of humor never failed to assuage any anxiety and fears I might have, even when it came to murder, mayhem, and misery.

'_Okay, Look; I won't call the cops just yet, but I am going to contact my buddy in Boston. He is a private eye; a brilliant detective and is someone I trust explicitly. _

_Now, is there anything else I should know other than he is crazier than a bedbug in June? '_

'_Well, he did tell me that his real name was James Hunter and that he was distantly related to the-'_

'_Bella, you're breaking up; can you move around and get a stronger signal? '_

The static in the phone increased dramatically as I continued to rove around the outside of the truck in an effort not to lose contact. I told him about James assuming the identity of his cousin James Witherdale and that he was instrumental in his death. The static was ever present and our conversation was peppered with _"Say that again? Uh-huh- wait-what?"_

'_Hunter? Is that right? '_

'_Yes.'_

'_Huh. Well I can have my friend run his name through the database and see if there's a hit but I doubt it; why would he give you that kind of info?'_

'_Most likely because he didn't think I'd live long enough to tell anyone.'_

There was silence on his end and I thought for a moment that I'd lost the connection.

'Are you there, Jasper?'

'Yes, sorry … I just had to plug my own phone in; please continue.'

'_He knew I was close, but he didn't know where I was exactly so he just kept shouting things in the air hoping that I could hear him. And I did, nearly every word.'_

'_That's the way the land is laid Bella. There are days when I've been up in the orchard pruning and I could hear a cricket fart from my living room fireplace.'_

'_Well, he was a lot closer to me at times than he should have been; I was scared that he would see my legs shaking under the shadow of the trees. But after he yelled that he wanted to assume a new identity and that he'd let all of us live if I gave him the summer, I was in a dilemma. I knew if I went to the police that he'd carry out his threat.'_

'_I still think he was fucking with you, Bella. If you went to the police, they would have arrested him on the spot. But since you didn't and you don't want me to call them because you're petrified he's going to do us all in, I have no choice but to do it myself.'_

'_You can arrest him?'_

'_Yes, I not only have a degree in Criminology I am also a licensed detective; thought you knew that. How do you think I managed to pay for all my schooling? '_

_I had no answer for that so I simply listened as he continued. The misty rain had given way to a significant storm; the sky was filled with lightning bolts and the sound of thunder echoed in the horizon. If I was going to get back on the road, I needed to do so sooner rather than later._

'_I need to get in touch with my buddy from Boston. He's a Private Eye and he'll advise me on how to handle this asshole. Right now what I need you to do is to get going. You said you're in New Jersey?_

'_Yes.'_

'_Did you take 87 South or-'_

'_No, I went on 95 South- you know how bad I am with driving through the mountains; I always get lost.'_

'_All right, then the first thing I want you to do is to get the hell off of that and use rural routes only.'_

'_Why? I don't know my way around back roads, Jasper. You know I have trouble __with directions I-.'_

'_Open up the glove compartment.'_

I did as he asked and spotted a GPS device.

'_Look, you're tooling around in a 1954 Ford Pick-Up; people take notice to that sort of thing. If that prick is on your trail, all he would have to do is inquire at a toll booth. With his phony-ass charm, the old lady who takes his token will give him an escort right to you.'_

'_What do I do?'_ I asked now, genuinely frightened. I looked uneasily over my shoulder certain I would see blue eyes glittering in the lights from the gas station.

As if he could see me, Jasper told me to stay calm and that in all likelihood if James were on my trail he would have found me by now.

'_He's probably got to rest up given the ass whooping he took today. Besides, he's cocky enough to figure he could give you two weeks to hide and still be able to find you. So, I want you to call your mother and let her know that you're coming for a visit. Once you get there, you can tell her exactly what has been happening. Hopefully by then I will have found his sorry- ass and hauled it off to the cooler._

'_Now, do you have any money?'_

'_A little; I cashed the stipend I received for coaching the men's debate team last week. There was an armoire I wanted to buy; I planned to go antiquing.'_

With James.

I was planning to go antiquing with James in Stockbridge. My God, had that only been a week ago? I started to become rather emotional at the thought, but Jasper doused that before I started weeping in earnest.

'_I don't want you to use your debit card or any other credit card until you hear back from me.'_

'_Why?'_

'_Because, James is crafty and even though he's as dumb as a stump in some areas he's smart as a whip in others; how do you think he managed to skirt the police so far? He's more slippery than a slop jar. He probably has connections. I don't know. What I do know is that I want you to keep off the main highways, and use the GPS. Oh, and open the gray box under the passenger seat; it has my 1850, Navy Colt Revolver and some ammo inside.'_

'_Jasper, I don't know how to use a gun!_ I cried out, horrified.

'_Yes, I know little-Miss-Massachusetts-No-Gun-Law-I'm-a-proud-card-holding-Democrat. But this isn't a political debate; this is your fucking life we're talking about here!_

_Besides, the gun is mostly ornamental; I don't actually use it to kill those Yankee boys when I'm in a reenactment. Not that I haven't been tempted a time or two.'_

'_Then why do you have ammunition?'_ I asked, puzzled.

'_Well, it was my Great-great-great-granddaddy's and he kept it in use. It is loaded now because I saw a copperhead in the barn last week and I figured I would rather enjoy sending him to Jesus compliments of Pee-paw's pistol. But as it turned out I ended up killing it with a hoe; thing was still sluggish from his winter solstice, I guess.' _

'_So you think James is really going to come after me?'_

'_I don't know yet. I need to get inside his twisted mind and dwell there for a day or two so I can get a feel for him … Figure out how he plans and plots. It is like playing a game of chess with a pro; you fumble about and keep on losing game after game until one day you put his strategies together and wham! He finally loses and you're the winner._

_Until I figure him out, I want you to keep off the highway and head straight to your mothers. Keep your phone handy and make sure to keep it charged. I've got a double charger in the glove compartment; it's my old one so it'll work with your antique granny phone. I cannot believe you have Foghorn to deal with on top of all this, but I guess, given the circumstances he is safer with you for the time being. Besides, I've trained him to attack intruders and he's meaner than owl shit. I've got a box of dried corn somewhere in the bed of the truck.'_

'_I've already found it; it looks like a homeless person lives back there, Jasper.'_

'_You're chiding me about my housekeeping when you've got a potential killer on your ass? Jesus.'_

I listened to him give me explicit instructions on how to use the revolver. ( "Just point it at the fucker and pull"). And his warning not to answer the phone from anyone unless it was him. He told me that he would be flying back to Boston first thing in the morning. He said he'd handle everything from there, right down to letting Jessica know that I had to take emergency leave to be with my mother.

'_But James said he'd tell her that we eloped and that she'd believe anything he said.'_

'_Look, I don't know what is in this sick bastard's mind just yet, but I will; trust me. Criminology has always been my area of expertise; I might as well put it to use in a real-life application. What I do know is that James Hunter is one sick fuck and he's dangerous. We can't let him destroy another woman's life by assuming a new identity. _

_I promised you that I won't call the police and I won't until you're safely ensconced at your mothers. _

_What I do know is, I am not going to head back to Old-Howie until all of this is sorted out.'_

'_Wait, you never told me how your grandmother is doing; is she okay?'_

'_Yeah, she'll be fine in a day or two. It turns out that she had a minor stroke, which the doctor thinks was a result of taking too many BC Powders; the woman is a damn addict with those things, I swear. Anyway, he put her in the hospital overnight but she's being released in the morning._

_Look, I'm going to let you go for now. I've got to make my reservation and get in touch with my buddy. Knowing him, he'll put a trail on him tonight._

_If you get tired, pull over to a hotel and lock yourself in the room. You can sneak Foghorn in if you have to; just put him in your big-ass- purse and pretend __he is a dog. If anything happens, call the police immediately and THEN call me, understood?_

_And Bella? _

_Yes?_

'_I love you. You're going to be just fine, honey. Go to your Mama's; you'll be safe there. I'll keep in touch with you throughout your trip until you get there.'_

That was two days ago.

It feels more like a life-time ago.

That was after I found out that my mother was out of the country and wouldn't be home for months.

I made it as far as South Georgia before I was finally able to get through to her office and spoke to her assistant, Frances, who confirmed, _"Renee cleared her calendar for the next three months and won't be returning until August; didn't she call you and let you know, Bella?"_

Of course not.

When did Renee ever let me know anything?

I tried to call Jasper to let him know that I was heading back to Howie but his phone went straight to voicemail.

I was almost back in South Carolina when I stopped to feed Foghorn and get gas for the pick-up.

My hand reached frantically under the seat for my small handbag, clawing at the carpet, for what felt like hours.

But the only thing I found was my aunt's, crystal and sapphire barrette.

The one I'd left on James' closet floor.

***WTWAB***

"Yep, she's dead all right," the robust blonde, named Rosalie, proclaims, slamming the hood down in defeat.

"What's wrong?" I ask, anxiously.

"Blown head gasket, would be my guess.

Whew, it's hotter than two rabbits screwing in a wool sack!" She declares, removing the kerchief from her head and patting her face with the bright swatch of calico.

"Ali, fetch me a Sundrop from the cooler?"

"You drank the last one an hour ago, Ro. You want a Cheerwine instead?"

"That's fine. Would you care for one?" she asks me, politely."

"I- (don't know what you're talking about) would love one, thank you."

I'm dying of thirst; I've not had anything to eat or drink in days. Besides if it's some kind of wine, I could certainly use a glass right now. It doesn't look as if I'll be driving anyway.

I have no identification, no money, no clothes, no phone; nothing whatsoever on my person.

What I do have is a hungry rooster and a fifty-year-old pickup with a dead engine that looks like the war was fought and lost in the deep recesses of its bed. My life is so surreal that at this point, I wouldn't be surprised to find Jeb Stuart and Robert E. Lee playing a resounding game of whist back there, with Abraham Lincoln keeping score, and Jefferson Davis pouring them each a snifter of brandy.

However, it's been a lifesaver.

I'd sold a pair of leather Calvary boots and an old canteen to the kid I'd bought gas from in Georgia. He gave me a free fill-up and two hundred dollars in cash. I took the money eagerly and the boy acted as if he'd won the State Lottery.

_Jasper is going to kill me, I think to myself._

_If James doesn't get to me first, of course_.

"Here you go; I brought a pack of Nabs too; you look like you haven't eaten a bit in days."

"What are you going on about Mary Alice; I stuffed myself silly at Esme's table only an hour ago."

Still, she reaches for the crackers and opens the pack neatly with a single swipe of her long, red fingernail. How she managed to avoid chipping them while poking around under the hood is beyond me.

"Gel," she says, swiping them on the front of her pink uniform. I look at her puzzled.

"My nails," she grins. "Caught you staring at them just now. I had them done yesterday. Gel polish, cost me twenty dollars but worth every last cent. This will last me at least two weeks; three if I don't have to work the kitchen this month."

"I brought the crackers for her, Ro, not you. Lord … If your ass gets any wider it's gonna have to file separately next year."

I look at her horrified; what a mean thing to say to the poor woman. But Rose only laughs back at her insult good-naturedly.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says proffering the pack to me. I take one out and nibble on it gingerly. After tasting the peanut buttery goodness, I gobble the rest in a single bite. She reluctantly hands me over the remaining crackers and the Cheerwine, which isn't wine, unless they sell it in six-packs south of the Mason-Dixon border. I look at the bright red can; it appears to be some kind of soft drink. I pop the tab and take a hesitant sip.

Heaven!

I down half the can in three gulps and then I am horrified when I feel a burp rise from my throat. I manage, just barely, to squelch it back before I embarrass myself.

'It's good, right?" Allie says to me. I nod my head in agreement and continue sipping the soda pop as delicately as possible, but it's difficult because I am so thirsty and is it ever so good!

"So, you ever gonna tell us why it is that you've got a damn rooster sitting next to you like he was your boyfriend? Or is this one of those elephants that sets up shop in the living room on a permanent basis?"

"Um …"

"Rose, can I talk to you for a sec?"

"What?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Okay, well then, talk."

The tiny girl, Allie, turns to me and rolls her eyes.

"Pardon us while we go over to the side of the Jeep and talk about you behind your back."

I blink my eyes at her; talk about being blunt!

Rose lets out a big huff from the side of her mouth.

"Excuse us a second." She storms off in the direction of her vehicle and I sit there on the side of the road, sipping a foreign soda and listening to Foghorn grunt and flap about in his cage. I walk over to the truck and release him. He looks happy to see me so I put him in my teacher's bag that I rescued from James's apartment only two days previously.

Even from a distance, I can hear their conversation quite clearly.

"This girl is in a world of trouble, Rosie."

"Don't I know it, girl. You get a vision of her or what?"

"Well, it's not clear yet, but I know it involves a -." She mouths.

"Psh, doesn't it always? What else do you see?"

"I see …" She glances over at me and puts her mouth to the blonde girl's ear.

"Ooh, that's creepy. What else?" I hear her ask. They continue to chat amongst themselves and now I can only hear fragments of their discussion. Rose's face is all wide open eyes and mouth. I can hear her clucking and sighing worse than Foghorn when he's rattled.

"Well, shit. I know she said something," She whispers in the tiny girl's ear… "But I figured she was talking about her rooster.

So what do you think we ought to do, Al?"

"I'm not sure, but I do know that there's a reason her truck crapped out here and that we were sent help her."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

"Well, shit. I expect we've got to make a few calls then," she sighs.

"Okay, you call Boots and see if he can get here with the wrecker; tell him I said to get his tail moving or I'll cut it off and use it to whip his ass. I'll go and call Miss Vick."

I hop out of the truck and walk over to a grassy knoll and sit. Rose glances over at me and gives me a thumbs-up. I try to smile back, but my face simply won't do as it's asked. I give her a sort of half-wave and look down at my hands.

They resume their conversation.

"Okay, you do that little thing, Allie. I'll take care of Boots. He's not going to be too happy seeing those Massachusetts plates, though; I can tell you that for a fact."

"Well, the same for Miss Vick. I mean, she's from _up North_. Do you even think Miss Vick will take her, Rose?"

"Pft, the girls got a damn rooster stuffed inside her Michael Kors, she'll love her; hell, she'll probably adopt her."

I sit here in the heat wondering who Miss Vick is and why they're calling to see if she'll take me. A shiver runs down my spine imagining the possibilities.

Maybe she's the madam of a brothel and I am going to be her new sex slave.

I stand up quickly, prepared to run if necessary.

Allie catches my move and rushes over to me.

"Hey there, I never did think to ask your name."

I look at her blankly and feel the anxiety that I had put on tap begin to work its way back into my system.

My name … she wants my name.

I look over the terrain and catch a sign post that says, Lake Annabelle.

"Um, my name is Annabelle … Annabelle …."

_Think Bella, think._

A blackbird flies overhead, stirring Foghorn from his slumber.

"Crow."

_Crow?_

"Well, Annabelle Crow, I'm certainly pleased to make your acquaintance.

My name is Mary-Alice Cullen and that gal over there is my sister, Rosalie Cullen."

I look at her in astonishment; these two girls can't possibly be sisters; they look nothing alike!

Before I can say a word, Rose walks back over to us with a grin on her beautiful face.

"Okay, we're all set; Boots will be here in ten minutes. He just got back from the beach with Elizabeth."

"Rose, come and officially meet Miss Annabelle Crow.

Annabelle Crow, this is Rosalie Cullen, my sister."

"Adopted sister, Allie."

"Whatever, you're my sister regardless of whose womb you crawled out of, Rose."

"Indeed."

"It's nice to meet you," I say, overwhelmed, shaking their hands.

"Um, forgive me for being rude, but I'm sort of in a hurry to get back to Massa-, well, to get back home. I had my pocketbook stolen out of my truck yesterday when I was pumping gas and-"

"Oh my God … did that little bastard steal it, Honey? Is he still coming after you?"

I look at her in astonishment and utter dismay.

_She knows._

That must have been what they were talking about privately. I've got to get out of here now!

"How-how do you know … wait… is there some kind of news story about me? Oh, my … I –I need to get out of here. If you'll just call a tow service maybe I can-"

"Hey, slow your roll, Missy. Ain't nobody got a feeler out after you as far as we know. Now sit back down and adjust that wedgie you got going on; Lord, we're not gonna _hurt_ you; we're gonna _help _you."

"But-but … she said … you said …"

"Yep, we _said,_ you got that right. Now listen, I don't know what's got you come undone but it's no sweat off my hiney. I took one look at you sitting in the truck with your fingers embedded in the wheel and that damn rooster just cock-a-doodling to beat the band and I knew straight off that you were in trouble. It don't take a psychic to figure that shit out.

But Mary-Alice here, well she's always had The Gift."

_The Gift?_

"Second sight; she's known around here as having the gift of discernment.

"It's biblical," Allie turns to assure me, patting my arm.

_Biblical?_

"We'll explain it all to you later, once we get you settled."

_Settled?_

"Look, Annabelle, I know from the way you're looking at us that you've already got us pegged as a couple of eccentric, but lovable, Southern waitresses who look, talk, and act like they tumbled right out of your television set, circa 1975. And frankly, you might be right.

But here's the thing; we ain't Flo and Alice, hun, but we're all you got."

I look at both women standing side by side; they don't seem like they would hurt a fly let alone me. There's an honest look about them; sincere and kind.

Before I make up my mind as to what to do, a large, yellow tow truck bearing the name _Boot's Tow and Go_ on the side panel pulls up next to us.

I watch as a pair dark, scuffed, leather boots and denim covered legs climb gracefully out of the door.

My eyes travel upward to his lean hips, long torso, and wide chest that is clad in a dirty, white V**-**neck T-shirt. They finally settle on a sharp jaw that looks like the owner ran out of razors a few days back. His mouth is full and almost feminine in color; his lips are cherry, they're so red. His nose is what the romantics would call aquiline. His eyes are green. Not like emeralds or grass or celery or even cats. No, they're more like moss or the kind of green that a pond turns in the springtime, deep and full of secrets.

I study his face and watch his swamp-eyes narrow as he goes around to the rear of my truck and stops dead in his tracks.

"Oh joy, just what Masenville needs; another Mass-hole," he spits, literally spits, out the side of his mouth.

I hate him on the spot.

*****WTWAB#U*****

**A/N:**

Yes, I know she should have gone to the police.

Yes, Jasper should have told her to go to the police.

But where's the fun in all that? You can assume that there will be a Jasper's POV in this story at some point so, to quote Rosie, "Get the wedgie out of yer hiney's! He might be dying to get his hands on a real life crime story but he ain't that big of a dumb ass."

I'll leave that for Bella.

But, I kinda have the feeling that Rose and Alice are about to give Ole Bella something she never learned from a book.

Common Sense!

Now ... about Boots ...

;)

Thank you for reading and reviewing!

Jayne


	7. Chapter 7: Home Training

Thank you to my Fic Sis, Frannie, for her hard work and awesome red pen magic! If it weren't for run-on sentences I'd have no sentences at all! Thank you, Sis!

Welcome to What-A-Burger# Unknown

Chapter Seven

Home Training

I stand for a few minutes quietly watching this man as he continues spitting and swearing on the side of the road. I can feel my lip curl upwards into a snarl and I wonder if that's ever happened to me before.

Lip curling.

You read about it in books and you might even see it a time or two in real life. But honestly, I've never snarled at anyone; not even at Jasper the time he took to chewing tobacco in an effort to curb his appetite. Now that was disgusting, yet my lips never curled.

I take my finger and press my lip back in place lest it stays that way permanently.

He glances in my direction and I swear his lips are curled exactly like mine, except his snarl is practically greeting his left nostril. Our eyes make contact and I watch as they open wide for just a second before he quickly averts them to the back of my truck. I see him shake his head and he storms back over to his tow truck and begins removing the braces and chains. I flinch and step back; stung. He looks like he hates the very sight of me and I understand why; the feeling is mutual.

Alice looks at our exchange and a grin slowly spreads across her elfin face. She makes contact with Rose, who is watching the entire episode with a matching smirk of her own.

"Damn, this is better than a Saturday night at the Majestic, Ali. I suddenly have a wild hair to get me some popcorn and a Big Gulp."

"Well tap that thought right down, Ro. A bowl of popcorn and a Big Gulp is the last thing your butt needs right now. If you keep packing the pounds on Carlisle is gonna have to order you a pink sheet to wrap around your ass instead of a uniform.

"Well, at least I have an ass and don't have to order one from Fredrick's of Hollywood."

They look at each other like they're having an altercation; the teacher in me kicks in and I automatically stand between them expecting a catfight.

"Y'all knock your shit off and get over here and help me secure this beast. I don't have all day!"

'_This beast;'_ now he's not only hating on the Massachusetts' plate, but he's also hating on the pickup.

What is his problem?

I know there was a war that divided the country across four Aprils, but I cannot imagine someone still has a problem with people from up North. Ridiculous!

He gives me another surly look and I feel my fists curl exactly like my lips. What an unpleasant, churlish man!

"Oh, honey, don't mind him; he's just bent out of shape on account that you're from Massachusetts. It's nothing personal." Rose says reassuringly.

I look at her stunned; he hates me because I'm from Massachusetts and it's not personal?

_Not personal?_

What is that supposed to mean anyway? If it's about a person, then it's personal.

I give her a slight shrug, but I feel my snarl coming back when I catch him spitting again.

_How disgusting_.

And against the law.

Well, at least in Massachusetts.

'His Ex was from Massachusetts," Alice whispers. I look at her stunned; people around here seem to be very forthcoming with their personal details, even to strangers such as myself.

"She done him wrong like a sappy love song, girl. _Please Mr. Please, don't play B 17 …"_

"Mary Alice, shut the hell up." I hear him call out to her, his eyes blazing.

"You shut up," she cries out.

"Well come on over here then and make me."

"I'll kick your sorry ass into next Thursday and you'll be lucky to live to tell about it Edward Anthony Masen Cullen. Now, you gonna stand here flapping your jaw all day or are you gonna help us out? Because I can call Daddy right now and he'll be more than happy to contact Cousin Garrett; heard he needs the work more than ever now that Katie is expecting again. And then I will make it my mission to see that Esme knows how you act like you don't have any home training. Now get this truck off the highway before Eleazer Hogg is done planting and comes through with his combine. Otherwise, we'll be here all night."

He steps forward almost menacing and I find myself stepping backward at the same time. One step, two steps … it feels like he's a lion and I am his prey.

That thought leads me to recall how I felt when I discovered the _log _that James kept with my name, rank, and serial number clearly marked and highlighted with a gold star. I begin to shiver uncontrollably.

He stops dead in his tracks and looks at me, really looks at me with those eyes; eyes that hold secrets, and perhaps a bit of pain in their murky depths.

Ali turns to me and laughs; "Annabelle, this is my brother, Edward, better known as Boots, also known as the biggest jackass in four counties. Boots, this is Miss Annabelle Crow. Now stop acting like a jerk and come shake hands."

I hold out my hand expecting to shake his, but instead of a hand, he stuffs a receipt in mine. I glance at it quickly.

_Fifty dollars!_

I cast my eyes downward but not before I see his narrow. I feel humiliated enough to be in this situation; I have very little money left in which to pay for anything including a tow. I do have triple AAA and several million dollars at Citizens Banks and Trust, but I have no way to access these funds. I don't even have my cell phone nor do I have Jasper's new number memorized and stored in my head. I suppose I could use someone's phone and call his office, but he said he wasn't going back to Howie.

These thoughts circle around my mind in a vicious cycle set to the tune of, _I should have called the police-I should have called the police-I should have called the police –_

"Annabelle, stop worrying! Lord, Boots, you could give her a minute to get her bearings before you shove a damn bill down her throat!"

Rose comes over to our sides and puts her hand lightly on my shoulder. The red gel polish flashes in the fading sunlight as she wags them, like a warning, in Boots' direction.

"Boots, we've got to get her truck down to the shop. I already looked at the engine and it appears the head gasket's blown to hell and took the radiator with it, too. I know enough about this particular model to know that it's going to take some time to find the parts and do the labor to get it back on the road. Why don't you just put that ticket back in your pocket and add it to the tab until you can give her a total?" She says calmly, but emphatically. I watch a look pass between them, and he nods his head reluctantly, shoving the receipt in his back pocket.

"I suppose y'all are taking her to Miss Vick's?" He sighs, resigned.

I feel my shackles rise.

Why on earth should this odious man care one way or another where I land? If anyone should care, it would be me, and frankly, I am too damn tired and overwhelmed to give a shit where I lay my head.

Did I just say, '_Give a shit?'_ Yes, yes I did, well, at least in my head. Jasper would be proud.

Shit-Jasper! I need to get in touch with him immediately and let him know that my purse was stolen and that James had left his calling card. My aunt's crystal and sapphire barrette was NOT in my purse when I fled Jasper's farm. I also need to let him know where I am.

Where am I?

Oh yes, that obnoxious-saliva-spewing-mechanic said it was Masenville.

"Yes, we'll follow you to the shop and then we're going to drive on over to Miss Vick's and explain the situation. You can drop her off after you get through looking the truck over."

"Oh I can, can I? Well, try explaining that to Elizabeth. We just got back from the beach and she tore into me when I told her I had to make a call. You know how wound up she gets when she has to go to bed without me, Rose."

Elizabeth? Hmm. So this foul-mouthed, swamp eyed creature has a new significant other. Well. Good luck to her. From what I can see about this man's abominable disposition and unsavory habits, she is going to need all the help she can get.

"Psh, Lizzie can wait another hour or two before she hits the hay, Boots."

He gives Rose a hard look and me, an even harder one and then nods his head curtly. Alice, the smaller one who supposedly has the biblical gift grabs my hand and tells me, "Don't worry, Sweetie, everything is going to work out just the way God planned it for you. I promise. I don't know what he has planned exactly, but I do know that it's beautiful."

I struggle not to roll my eyes; I've never had a strong belief in religion, although I certainly did a lot of praying in that apple orchard. I nod my head absently and muster up a smile to reassure her. She squeezes my shoulder blade hard, as though she is it trying to extract the devil himself right out of me.

"Listen, when we get you settled, we'll sit down and have a long talk and help you figure out your next move, just like a game of chess."

My breath catches when she echoes the same words Jasper said to me only yesterday.

"Do you think I might be able to use a phone? I need to get in touch with a friend to let him know that I'm all right."

"Mine died right after I called Miss Vick. Ali will let you use hers."

"Mine died too. The damn thing won't hold a charge anymore and I'm not ready for an upgrade until next month. Boots has a phone in his office that he'll let you use."

Wonderful; I wonder if he'll add that to my tab? My stomach churns at the thought of asking this man for anything, including a ten-cent phone call.

"Er, I'll wait until you get yours charged, I don't want to be a bother. Alice, may I talk to you privately?" I ask discretely as possible.

"Sure, step into my office," she jokes walking over to the Jeep. I look over at Rose, who is having a rather heated discussion with Boots about the status of my truck.

"So, how can I help you?" She asks in a formal voice that sounds vaguely like Mrs. Pickles, the college librarian.

"Well, I'm in a bit of a bind, as I am sure you already figured out. My purse and all my money were stolen out of my truck and I don't have much cash on my person."

"Yes, Hun … I already knew that. I thought you were going to tell me about that creepy blonde man you're all mixed up with; the one who chased you off that farm and sent you running straight to Masenville."

I look at her stunned; how on earth does she know this? I begin to back away from her in alarm.

"Girl, you can run from me, but you cannot run from Him," she says looking up at the sky.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about …" I taper off. I'm dubious at best. She says she doesn't know anything about me and that she hadn't heard anything on the news, yet she described James and my last encounter with him at Jasper's farm.

"I know you're scared, Annabelle. I would be too if I had to run hell-bent-for-leather, half way down the East Coast with nothing but a truck full of battle gear and an ornery rooster. But, I was referring to Him, the Lord Jesus. He's there for you. You believe that don't you?"

"I-I don't know … I've never been a particularly religious person."

"Well that's okay, He's a particularly people person so even if you're not sure about Him he is sure about you. But I don't want to scare you; seems like I do that with a lot of folks. As for the fellow who chased you off, well, my vision is still fuzzy, but it's becoming clearer. I need to get a good night's sleep; I always get the best images in my dreams.

Now, let's get your truck off the road and have Boots bring you over to Miss Vick's. We'll have supper and talk later. I promise it'll be all right, Bell."

_Bell …_

She tosses her head back and laughs a rather bawdy, deep laugh for someone so tiny. "I know your name isn't Annabelle. My mother, whoever she was, didn't give birth to no dummies. But it suits you, somehow, even if it is a little long. So, until you're comfortable telling me your real handle, I'll just call you Bell, all righty?"

I nod my head mutely wondering how on earth she knows these things. But then I shake my head, because, in the end, it doesn't really matter; I'm in too much of a desperate situation to second-guess anything.

"Meeting is adjourned. Now, it looks like Boots has your beast secured so Rose and I will see you back at the house."

I grimace, hating that I have to get in the truck with such a loathsome man.

"Oh sweetie, Boots is all right. He'll take care of you, no worries. I know he came off sounding like a jackass, but that's just how he is … Although, I've got to admit that I've never seen him this fired up over a Massachusetts plate, but of course, Tanya really did a number on him and-"

"Mary-Alice will you please stop spreading my business like strawberry jam? Lord. I would like to get this show on the road before dark. You know how Elizabeth frets when I …"

"Okay we're coming, Jesus wept …"

"Uh, you ready?" he asks me reluctantly.

I nod my head without making eye contact and walk over to his wrecker. I'm about to open the door, when surprisingly, he does it for me. He even assists me when I have trouble climbing into the cab. Once inside, I shake my hair over my face and stare out the window. Everything is starting to look blurry because I don't have my glasses with me. I left them inside …

Crap!

I forgot Foghorn!

I turn to the man named Boots and demand that we head back, but he shakes his head and tells me that Ro has him. Apparently, Miss Vick has a barn out back of her house and he'll be welcome there. I nod my head, relieved and go back to staring out the window.

Five minutes later, we enter the town of Masenville, established in 1839. His wrecker clunks along Main Street, which consists of several small businesses; an antique shop, movie theater, diner, hardware store, ice cream parlor, and a beauty salon. As he crosses a set of train tracks, I see an old station with a wide platform. Flowers and plants are everywhere and although the sun is starting to fade, there's a brightness about the scenery that makes me blink; it looks larger than life, almost as if nature colored everything twice.

He rounds a corner and stops at a red light. I take in a large, rambling restaurant, the kind that was popular back in the nineteen-fifties, with curb service, speakers and all. I see a large neon sign that says, _Welcome to What-A-Burger_. There is a star with a faded number on it, as well as an oblong sign of a pig, happily eating what looks to be a burger and fries. I stare at it as we wait for the light to turn, and my stomach gives a massive rumble; I'm starving.

He looks at me sharply and reaches under the seat, retrieving a lunch box. He hands it to me and says, "Eat."

I jump in my seat at his gruff command but open the metal container. Inside is a juice box, a bag of Cheezits, and a wrinkled peach. I close it with a snap and settle back in my seat.

"Suit yourself."

The light turns green and for a moment, just a millisecond, I think about his eyes. Then I force myself to rid myself of that thought immediately. He turns left onto Cullen Way and drives the wrecker into a lot. There's a metal building that has an office, a garage, and four bays. The sign on the front says Cullen's Automotive.

"Wait for me in the office," he barks, punching in a security code.

1987**#2008.

_I've always been good with numbers_.

I enter his office and sit on the red vinyl seat that is split right down the center. The cushion hugs the sides of my thighs and pinches them uncomfortably. I look around and see that it is spotless and well-organized. There is a long counter that divides the space, with a desk on one side that has several pictures, an ancient computer, an old phone, and an archaic Rolodex.

My stomach churns when I see the Rolodex. I wonder where James is tonight and if he has followed me. I force that thought out of my head and it joins all the other thoughts that are lined up patiently in the back of my mind, waiting for the day when they are allowed to surface.

_Take a number_, I think to myself, and chuckle at my own stupidity.

I strain my neck over the counter and try to see the pictures on his desk, but they are turned the wrong way. Instead, I concentrate on the old fashioned metal clock on the wall that ticks loudly and makes me nervous. I lift my arms up trying to let the cool air from the ceiling fan reach my pits and then put them down immediately sensing that they probably smell to high heaven.

I need a bath, badly.

I see a sign that says restroom and sigh in relief; at least I can wash up and brush my hair.

I enter the plain, cinder block room, use the toilet, and lean over the sink and put the faucet on full blast. Water gushes out and I purge my face under the stream, squeezing the familiar pink soap that is found in public bathrooms the world over. I scour until it's clean and then rinse my mouth, scrubbing my teeth with a brown paper towel. I wash my torso, privates and pits as best I can; what did Jessica call this? Oh yes, 'a whore's bath.'

I grab my brush out of my bag and run it through my snarls and tangles as best I can. I rub some _Pear and Pink Magnolia_ hand lotion all over. The smell immediately brings to mind the first time I laid eyes on James and it makes me want to throw up. So I scrub it away as best I can.

When I come back into the office, I fully expect to see him sitting there with a sneer; but he isn't. I glance at the clock and realize that I've been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. I pace the room, anxious to get back to Rose and Alice. For one thing I need to have someone help me get in touch with Jasper and for another I want to get away from Boots or whatever his name is as soon as humanly possible. From the interior of the garage, I can hear rumbles, clatter, and other noises that indicate that he in there doing something with Jasper's truck. Frustrated, I exit the office and head across one of the open bays and peer inside.

He has removed the pickup from the wrecker. I see that he is leaning over the hood looking at the engine. From my vantage point, I can see that his dirty, white T-shirt has ridden up, exposing a sunburned torso and what looks to be an enormous tattoo. The crack of his rear end gleams white, loud, and proud, as he grunts over his task. I let out a snort of disgust before I can stop myself, and he jumps at the sound; banging his head on the hood.

"Fuck!"

I rush over to see if he needs my help, but he holds his hands in front of himself as if to tell me to stop.

I do.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah; happens all the time; occupational hazard," he grunts out. He has a deep voice with a slight drawl that is almost musical to my northern ears. It is my first time down South and I am unaccustomed to the accents which sound foreign to me.

"Um, have you had an opportunity to diagnose the problem with the truck? I don't have enough cash on me at present, but as soon as I can get in touch with my friend I can access the account and …"

He slams the hood of the truck down and spins around to look at me.

"I don't have time to fool around with this old POS. And even if I did, I wouldn't touch it without cash up front; it's going to cost y'all a boat load of money and I am not about to get screwed over by some loud-mouth-opinionated-Yankee."

I don't know if it's his words or the sneer he gives me as he spats them out, but I am overcome with a rage the likes of which I have never known before. Not even when James came after me at his apartment and attempted to rape and murder me.

I fly over to him, possessed. I grab him by his filthy shirt with one hand and put my other fist in his face with the other.

"I don't know who you think you are talking to me like that, but if it's because some woman from Massachusetts broke your heart and left you, then it certainly has nothing whatsoever to do with me. I might be from the same state as her, but I assure you I wasn't sent here to represent the women from Massachusetts or anywhere else, you-you- ignorant and vile … _Redneck!"_

His eyes narrow dangerously and a flush, dark and angry, spreads rapidly from his chest to his neck, mirroring my insult.

I have never affronted anyone in my entire life and I certainly wasn't aware that the term Redneck was even in my lexicon of vocabulary words.

Before I am able to stop myself, my fist opens and then slaps him hard, across his smug face. He grabs my hand, and in a single motion, pins me between the side of the truck and his hard body. His chest is heaving, as is mine, and for a moment, we simply stand there looking at each other panting like a couple of feral animals. I try to push him off with one hand, but it's useless; I could no more push him away than I could a Mack truck. He chuckles low and without humor.

I've never been so excited, I mean, scared, in my entire life.

I watch his eyes as they go from green to almost black. They're swimming with emotion, but none that I can identify; they're changing too fast. I stand and watch, spellbound. My mouth parts open and I think I let out a small gasp, but I can't be sure.

He releases one hand from my shoulder and I cringe, afraid he might strike me, but he doesn't. Instead, in a surprisingly gentle move, he sweeps away the hair that has fallen over my face, carefully tucks it behind my ear, and then tugs it, hard.

He's close, so close to me. I'm breathing, but just barely. His eyes never leave mine and I wonder if I am being hypnotized or if I've finally lost my mind.

His hands, though covered with grease, calluses, and chipped nails, are perhaps the most elegant hands I've ever seen outside of a magazine.

He takes one, long finger, thickly covered with grease, and places it on my cheek. I watch, captivated, as he, slowly, oh-so-slowly, trails it down my face, neck, and chest, ending at the top of my heaving bosom.

_Heaving bosom_. I sound as if I stepped straight out of one of my Aunt Margaret's guilty pleasure books that feature a pirate and damsel in distress on the cover. I might be a damsel in distress and he might be as nefarious as a pirate, but there is nothing literary, poorly written or otherwise, about this tableau.

Desire, hot, molten, and unwanted, surges through me. I grab his shirt once more and pull him towards my mouth in a searing kiss.

_Searing kiss? _Chapter two, page nine, paragraph three.

I don't even care how trite and ridiculous this sounds, but nothing has ever turned me on like this mulish man, with the angry eyes, the slow drawl, the filthy hands, and the wicked tongue.

We kiss each other hungrily, I mean, angrily for several seconds, our tongues battling each other from the Mason/Dixon Divide.

I moan into his mouth and he presses his body harder into mine. I can feel every angle, every plane, every part of him, as he deepens the kiss.

Hot, brutal, fiery, ferocious, steamy, sultry …

What am I doing … listing all the words I have stored in my obviously addled romantic brain?

There's nothing romantic about this, I tell myself, as I grab his head and pull his hair bringing him ever closer to me.

His hips grind into me and I clutch his rear-end and lift my leg up, _where the heck is it going?_ Doesn't matter … he knows. He wraps it around his waist and our bodies do this sort of bump and grind motion that is both alien and wanton. I've never felt like this before.

_Wanton?_ Dear God … please shut this Harlequin Romance narrative off so I can appreciate this moment!

The ringing of a cell phone from his back pocket stops us mid-thrust-bump-swirl and grind.

"Talk about Northern aggression …" He whispers in my ear. "No wonder we lost the war."

"Wha-?"

"Shush."

He just told me to Shush. What nerve! I straighten my top and brush off my hair. I've never been so flustered, angry, confused, or … I don't even know. What on earth just happened here?

"_I'll show you some Northern aggression,"_ I think to myself.

"Save that thought for now, Sugar."

Apparently my crazed road trip has shut off my inner filter as well as any decorum I possess.

He lets me go and digs the phone out of his pocket.

"Bip? Yes, honey, I know. I told you I'd be home soon. Is Mama Esme still there or? Oh, she took you to Miss Vicks. Good. No, I'm just finishing up … I'll be there before you know it, sweetheart."

He ends the call and shoves his phone back in his pocket.

"You ready?"

So … I guess we're pretending that our tryst (Silhouette, Avon, and Harlequin be gone!) never occurred.

Good.

Except … I just kissed a man who is not mine. One who clearly belongs to someone and that someone is not me. I avert my eyes from his gaze and straighten my shoulders. I might be many things, but a homewrecker, I am not.

However, there is no way I am going to apologize either.

No.

I've had enough shrinking, vomiting, and nervous breakdowns to last me a lifetime and I am simply not going to put up with that anymore. Besides, he … well, he provoked me.

_Because kissing a man you do not know is a wonderful way to disarm them, Bella. Use your head. _

_For once._

He does this weird sort of eyebrow lift as a means to prompt my answer.

"Yes."

We head out back to a silver Volvo. It isn't a new model, but it is clean and cared for; even the leather interior is spotless and soft as butter.

As before, he opens the door for me and I climb inside puzzled by his manners; he's obviously had some ingrained in him. What did Alice refer to it as? Home-training.

When he starts the engine, classical music fills the empty space between us. I look at him in shock.

"It's, Debussy. Elizabeth likes to listen to it; says it calms her nerves."

I nod my head and close my eyes listening to the familiar strains of Claire De Lune. I used to adore attending the outdoor symphonies at Tanglewood.

Until James came along and ruined it for me.

A few minutes later, he pulls up in front of a large … Well, mansion, for lack of a better word. Upon closer inspection I can see that it is in various forms of decay; the Wisteria clings to the fading clapboard the way a woman hiding her once lovely, but now stained and frayed evening gown would.

The shutters are, were, once yellow but are now chipped and sagging as is the large wraparound front porch. There are several rockers and a porch swing on one side with glasses of tea that are long forgotten. I see a porcelain saucer on a small table with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter resting on top. The smoke swirls and carries its acrid scent to my nostrils. Someone must have left in a hurry, I think to myself.

The door is large; solid oak and has a bronze doorknocker directly in its center. Although everything else is shabby, the knocker is gleaming under the porch light.

I wait, wondering why I'm here, and who is behind the door. Oh, the hideous possibilities! But, since I have no choice given my situation, I settle the butterflies in my stomach and give him a look to see why he doesn't open the door.

He stares at me and grins, unexpectedly, and then he pulls out a red bandanna from his back pocket and spits, yes, spits on it.

This man could really use some manners, as well as a good doctor, to check his over- productive salivary glands.

Then he does the most unexpected thing of all; he leans into me, and with the spitty handkerchief, slowly begins to wipe my face, neck, and chest. Of course, I stand there like a fool, awestruck by his gesture. When he reaches my cleavage, however, self-preservation (Oh, there you are!) finally takes over and I snatch the cloth from his hands.

"What are you doing? I ask angrily.

He laughs that low laugh again and drawls, "I'm removing the trail of grease I left on your skin; unless you like having my marks all over you?"

I blush from the roots of my hair right down to my toes.

"Look who's the Redneck now," he taunts, hotly, in my ear.

I huff, and proceed to scrub my ear to remove his tease and his heat.

"Whoa … no need to draw blood," he says when I snatch the cloth out of his hand and begin to scrub at my chest, frantically.

I shove the bandanna in his hands and he brings it to his nose and sniffs it, appreciatively.

And then, in typical, uncouth fashion, he ruins, what might have been interpreted as a romantic gesture, by blowing his nose into it, and then putting it back in his pocket.

And then … he winks at me!

How foul is he?

He opens the door with a long, wrought-iron key and we go inside.

I'm nervous but enchanted by this charming old house. The interior is full of staircases, spirals, nooks, and crannies. A large grandfather clock flanks one wall; it appears to be very old. I jump when it strikes eight.

A clatter from the stairwell draws my attention upward but not before I catch Boots' gaze.

I watch, mesmerized, as his eyes change once again; peeling back the layers of anger, loss, and pain, to reveal a new emotion within the mire.

Happiness.

I look up to see what could possibly have caused this new phenomenon.

A little girl, about seven years old, is poised dramatically on the staircase. Her hair is so red that it shines like a maple leaf in the lamplight that peeps through the eyebrow window. Her face is so freckled, that at first glance I think she is merely tanned. But as she comes toward us; storming is more like it, I can see that there are millions of tiny speckles; like spatters of stain from a tired painter, who flung his brush off the deck in a fit of despair.

But even though her toothless grin, bright red hair, and freckled face would be more than enough to hold my rapt attention, it is her clothing that disarms me.

She is wearing a long, full blue petticoat, much like the kind one might have worn fifty or more years ago. And around her chest, she has fashioned some sort of top (for lack of a better word) that appears to be made from gym socks and perhaps … _pantyhose?_

"Elizabeth Ann Masen Cullen; what in the hell are you wearing?"

She comes running down the steps two at a time and twirls like a ballerina when she gets to the foot of the stairs.

"I'm wearing Miss Vicks' hoop skirt, she said I could. Look … isn't it the prettiest thing you ever saw?" she asks, as she pirouettes and bows before us.

I stifle a laugh.

"Huh," he grunts. But I notice his face almost splits in two; his smile is so big.

My heart begins to flutter.

Just a little.

"Well, what the heck is that you have wrapped around your chest? Wait- are those my new socks?"

"This is my brassiere; Miss Vick says I'm developing."

"The only thing you're developing is an attitude. Now run back upstairs and take that braz- thing off before I have to do it for you. And take my socks off and return them to my drawer as soon as we get home. Damn … can't a man have anything to call his own in this hen house?"

"But Daddy …"

_**Daddy?**_

_**A/N: **Thank you for reading! Please leave a review and Boots will get back to you as soon as he stops spitting. ;) (Yes, there is a reason and no I am not telling you just now. He's had enough of his personal business being broadcast by Mary-Alice.)_

_PS: I Say-I say ... I am in the process of moving out of state__, however, I am going to continue writing this story because it is the only thing keeping me sane at the moment. Pray for me? lol!_

_Jayne xo_


	8. Chapter 8: A Rose for Miss Vick

"From that time on her front door remained closed, save for a period of six or seven years, when she was about forty, during which she gave lessons in china-painting." A Rose for Emily.

A Rose for Miss Vick

***WTWAB***

The first thing I noticed about Edward Anthony Cullen was his eyes.

They were narrow, green, and full of annoyance. Yes, they were disarming, but that was because they were full of anger, mistrust, irritation, and later, lust. There was nothing fresh or innocent in their depths; they were murky and full of secrets.

When I was a little girl, my aunt warned me to shy away from swamps.

'_You never know what might be lurking underneath a lily pad, Bella. It might be a reed or it could be a snake.'_

My aunt, as ever, was often correct.

And always wise.

The second thing I noticed about him was his laugh. It was harsh, bitter and barked out like an aggressive dog. True, he knew how to adjust it to his audience, but I'd caught him unguarded and I couldn't stand the sight of his snarl, the curve of his smirk, or the sound of his growl.

The third thing I noticed about him was his stingy nature; the way he shoved his receipt in my hand for the tow, and then later, the way he bellowed at me when I asked him if he was able to do the repair. _"I want my money up front …"_ I'd like to give him _something up front_ … well; I'd like to give him something.

What I _didn't_ see, was the unexpected sweetness he had hidden underneath his prickly exterior.

Until his little girl with the red hair and countless freckles, came charging down the stairs and straight into his heart.

Literally.

"_Oh Daddy, stop being so silly; you know I'm only playing dress-up! Did you stop and get some more cherry suckers; you ate my last one. I better not catch you smoking behind Miss Vicks' Magnolia because if I do I'm going to tell Papa Carlisle and Mama Esme on you. Oh, and can we get a dog? You said we could get one as soon as we moved out of the hen house, and now we have, so …"_

"Lillibet …" He groaned. "Get your tail upstairs now and put your own clothes back on, or I'm …"

But before he had a chance to finish, his daughter was in his arms, giggling and peppering his scruffy face with kisses and little girl squeals. My own childless heart thumped in response. She was certainly adorable, albeit, quite precocious.

"Mama Esme and I found the cutest little puppy in back of Burger, Daddy! He's with her and Pawpaw right now. Pawpaw said he's a little shit."

"Whoa … Paw-Paw said _what?"_

"He said he was a little shi …"

At that, Boots put his finger on her lips and shushed her.

"I'm sure you misunderstood, Betsy. Pawpaw doesn't talk like that. Besides … we just moved into our new house, and I work all kinds of crazy hours. And you have school to attend. I-"

"But Daddy … you promised! You said …"

"Bip … we'll talk about it later."

Her chin began to dimple.

"Oh no … I'm not falling for one of your hissy fits; not this time. Lord. You sure do take after your two crazy Ants.

Now hightail it up there and find Miss Vick. I want to go home."

She let out a sigh, tugged down her makeshift bra, and straightened her shoulders, and with a tiny huff, began to head up the stairs. About four steps in she suddenly stopped to face us.

"Daddy, who's that lady with you, is she going to be my new Mama?"

I watched his face go pink. I'm sure mine was on fire, too.

"Lizzie, we'll talk later; now-get!

He turned to me, face flushed, hair rumpled from dragging his fingers repeatedly through his locks. Despite my obvious embarrassment, I had to bite my lips to keep from smiling. I watched his eyes narrow.

"Now don't you go getting any ideas; I'm off women for the time being. What happened earlier was …"

"A big mistake," I completed his statement for him.

He lifted his eyebrows, walked towards me slowly, and then grinned.

"Was it now? Huh. Well, I kinda thought you enjoyed it, sugar. I mean, your heart was racing and the way you wrapped your legs around my waist …"

"Oh, shut-up, or I'll."

"Or you'll … what? You're going to show me some more of that _Northern Aggression?"_

He came over to me and ran his finger over the back of my ear, down my neck, and snaked it underneath my shirt tracing gentle circles with the pad of his thumb. My breath caught in my throat.

"I know how to tame a wild Yankee …" he chuckled, softly. "It's in my blood. Why my great-great-great- granddaddy …" I shut him up by placing my mouth on his. He tasted like cherries.

He deepened the kiss. I felt his fingers twist in the back of my hair as he gathered it into his fist and pulled on it hard causing me to throw my head back with a groan. His mouth found my throat and I felt my leg once again lift on its own accord. He hoisted me up, flush against his chest. I felt myself beginning to pant, although it might have been him; he was murmuring all sorts of nonsense in between kisses, smooches, and sweet little pecks.

A creak on the stairs made us both jump, and he nearly dropped me as a result. I removed myself, quickly, from his grasp, and did my best to straighten myself before I turned, chest heaving.

I looked up at the stairs, expecting to see a freckled-faced little girl coming down the steps.

Instead, I saw someone quite different.

A slender woman, of advanced age was poised at the top of the stairs. Her hair was pulled upwards in some kind of elaborate bun; a pompadour? Two ornate chopsticks stuck out of the coil, resembling a set of television antennas; rabbit ears. Tendrils and wisps of snow white tresses surrounded her face like a halo. Her skin was even whiter than her hair, if possible, but her cheeks were lavishly painted with rouge, as was her tiny, rosebud mouth. She was dressed in a long, gray, velvet robe with wide sleeves that festooned at the wrist. I noticed her hands were small, gnarled, and adorned with diamonds and rubies that glittered, despite the fact that sun had long gone down and the lamplight was weak.

Her other hand clasped a brass cane that was intricately embossed with jewels, which spiraled upwards towards the head of some type of bird, a parrot, perhaps?

"Well, look what the cat dragged in."

Her voice was low, cadenced, and quite musical. I stood there enthralled. It was almost like a scene from a Faulkner novel come to life.

I watched as Boots stood ramrod straight before he squared his shoulders and took off to the stairs, climbing them one measured step at a time until he reached his destination. He offered her his arm as if he was assisting royalty. She let go of the railing and took his arm; her fingers circling just above his elbow. She gave him a small nod, no more than a slight lift of her pointed chin, to indicate that she was ready for her descent.

"Edward, I believe Elizabeth requires your attention in the blue room," she stated, as soon as they reached the landing.

She turned to me, (My mouth sufficiently open to let in a swarm of flies) and said:

"You must be the young woman Mary Alice and Rosalie were discussing with me earlier. Do come into the parlor so we can get better acquainted."

With that, she let go of Boots' hand and walked steadily towards me, pausing for a moment to check her footing.

Boots' eyes never left mine during this exchange and I wondered what was going on. Why his eyes changed yet again, as they flooded with color and possibly concern. Concern for whom, I was not certain, but I heard him murmur, "Will you be okay?"

At this Miss Vick spoke, her head held high, "If you're speaking to me, then yes, I shall be perfectly fine. As for this young woman, well, we shall see.

Please take Elizabeth home and put her to bed; her need for a brassiere has worn me out; the child doesn't need one, but she wants one. Take her to Goody's tomorrow afternoon and have Pauline Pig fit her for a trainer so we can all get some relief from this delicate subject.

Oh, and Edward?

The child has been blathering non-stop about a little dog that Carlisle and Esme found this afternoon behind the restaurant. Carlisle is under the impression that it's some sort of a Shih Tzu. Apparently, Elizabeth has decided he's her new baby; she asked me if I had any of y'all's old toys or bonnets lying around in my attic. Please take the dog down to Doc Wolf's office in the morning and get him his shots."

"But …"

"Never mind, _but._ You told the child she could have a dog when y'all got settled and now you're settled, so, in short, it's settled; subject closed."

"Yes, Ma'am."

And in those two simple words, I felt the warmth spread through my being. Boots not only had manners; he had a natural grace that belied his coarse language and his loutish habits.

But then he ruined the moment by giving me a devilish wink and mouthing the words, _"Northern Aggression,"_ just as he turned toward the stairs and took them three steps at a time.

I would have laughed had it not been for the steely gaze of Miss Vick's eyes. She stared at me for a second too long for comfort and I shifted my feet self-consciously.

I was just about to ask her if I could use her phone to contact Jasper, (the hell with James) and have him come and rescue me from this southern Gothic novel I'd stumbled into, when she spoke.

"Please allow me to introduce myself; my name is Victoria Masen, and you must be Annabelle Crow; is that correct?"

"Um, yes."

She raised her eyebrows and frowned.

"I meant to say, yes, _Ma'am_."

She nodded her head in acceptance.

"Crow? Did you say, _Crow?_"

"Yes, Ma'am, Annabelle Crow."

"Bullshit."

I looked at her shocked; surely I misunderstood! However, she only continued to stare at me with her sharp black eyes, eyes that could apparently read the truths in one's soul, and smiled.

"Humph, no matter … I'll get to the truth momentarily.

Now, I believe Mary Alice and Rose have provided us with light refreshments near the fireplace. Shall we?"

She extended her frail, bejeweled hand and I took it lightly in my own as we moseyed towards the front parlor. Once there, she nodded her head regally in the direction of a purple velvet settee and we sat side by side.

A platter of tiny sandwiches and a pitcher of amber colored liquid, with two, heavy crystal goblets, were laid out on a dark, mahogany, occasional table.

"Tea?" she asked as if she were the Queen, tossing a few alms to the poor.

"Yes, please," I humbly responded. I had no idea who this woman was, nor in truth, where I was, other than being in a small town name Masenville. I began to feel very much like Alice must have felt when she plunged head first down the rabbit hole and landed in Wonderland.

To her credit, Miss Vick poured a tall glass of iced tea into the goblets without the slightest waver of her ancient hand. I reached for the glass, but she waved her hand dismissively.

"Go over to the little cabinet; not the one with the Bible atop- the smaller one with the ivory inlays, and fetch the crystal decanter with the monogram B."

I gave her a puzzled look, but she only stared back at me, impassively. I stood as instructed, walked the considerable length of the room and found the cabinet she described.

"Open it," she commanded.

I turned the tiny latch and the door swung open. Inside stood a myriad of crystal decanters that were adorned with tiny, pewter monograms. The cabinet was deeper than one would suspect, given its height and I navigated through the glass until I found one adorned with the letter B. I plucked it out carefully, walked back over to Miss Vick, and placed it in her outstretched hands.

She poured a fairly large amount of the golden liquid into each goblet and handed it to me with a blank expression.

"Drink."

I looked at the mixture in my hand and paused; what if this was some kind of weird elixir that rendered me senseless, or worse, helpless?

"Oh don't be a ninny, child. Go on and drink; it's nothing more than sweet tea spiked with a bit of the Colonel's bourbon. You look like you could use a bracer, and Lord knows, I could do with one myself."

I nodded my head in defeat and took a tentative sip. The second the liquid hit the back of my throat I began to cough; it was sweet, yes, but extremely powerful! Although I was accustomed to the usual rounds of beer with Jasper on many Friday nights, and glass after glass of cheap wine that was served with regularity at various faculty functions, I was not one to imbibe in hard alcohol.

I cleared my throat as discreetly as I could and accepted the white, damask napkin Miss Vick proffered, with a choked thank you. From the next room, I could hear Boots' cackle as he exited the house with a giggling Elizabeth on his heels. My cheeks burned knowing that I was likely the cause of his guffaws.

"I see you have made quite an impression on Edward. Take care with him, Missy; his heart is precious to me; I guard it more fiercely than a blood-sniffing hound howling under a full moon."

At this, I actually did choke; what on earth was she implying? The liquid ran down my chin and onto the top of my blouse. I dabbed at the stain and frowned. Oh no, my buttons were noticeably out of place. That lout must have done that while he was pretending to remove the grease from my neck. Why of all the nerve!

My expression must have caught Miss Vick's attention because she tossed her regal head back and began to laugh, uproariously, like a hyena.

I stood, aghast, and reached for my purse. I had no idea where I was going, but I knew I couldn't stay in this madhouse with this crazed person another moment.

"Oh, sit down, girl and finish your tea; you've nowhere to go anyway. You might as well stay long enough to hear my story. I promise you, it's a good one. Besides, you can't leave until Mary Alice and Rose return. That would be the height of rudeness after they rescued you."

Flustered, I looked at her; she was right, I couldn't leave without at least thanking the girls for assisting me, besides, she was correct; I had nowhere else to go. I sat down on the far edge of the sofa and sighed.

"Will they be long?" I inquired, quietly.

"Well, that depends. I sent them to Dyer's store for a pack of Pal Malls and a banana Moon Pie.

It's a night for vices, don't you agree?

Of course, I happen to know that Dyer's closed an hour ago. I also know that those two silly gals will drive clear to Charlotte just to indulge me, so I think it's safe to say that, yes, they'll certainly be awhile.

Now then, I fancy a bedtime story. Why don't you tell me yours, and then, if I'm feeling so inclined, I'll tell you mine."

"I …"

I had no idea what to say, I thought to myself. This entire afternoon was the most surreal experience of my entire life!

The exception being the episode with James, of course, I thought to myself.

I remember shuddering as I glanced uneasily out the long window. I still jumped every time his piercing blue eyes crossed my mind; I knew that he'd make good on his word and eventually track me down.

Tears flooded my own eyes, and I dabbed at them, furiously.

Suddenly I knew what I had to do and I couldn't waste another minute!

"Miss Vick, may I use your phone? I need to call the police. My purse was stolen earlier today and I was unable to get in touch with my mother or my friend. I-I need to call the authorities, immediately … people will be worrying about me and I-"

"No."

I looked at her stunned; did she just tell me no?

"That's right, I said no. The police will still be there tomorrow if you feel the need to call them. As for those who are concerned about your well-being, well, they'll just have to fret a little bit longer. According to Mary Alice, you are in a world of trouble, and believe me, if there is one thing I know about, it's trouble with a capital T."

She paused momentarily and reached for the crystal decanter.

"I declare, we should just go ahead and take a swig out of this old thing instead of diluting it with this morning's sweet tea. I've always preferred to take things as they are instead of disguising them under the pretense of being something they aren't, don't you?

She brought the decanter up to her lips, took a swig, and then passed it to me.

I looked at the bottle for a second and inwardly shrugged. I supposed if I had to be left with an eccentric old lady who both fascinated and terrified me that I might as well get well and truly incapacitated. I was probably going to wind up dead anyway. I took the decanter out of her hands, brought it to my mouth and took a long pull. This time I didn't cough or choke. I felt the fiery liquor course through my veins and miraculously began to relax.

"Well done, Miss-As-the-Crow-Flies. Take another sip and then spill. I don't have all night, and from the sounds of it, neither do you."

"I don't even know where to begin," I confessed.

"Well, in my opinion it's always best to start with the end and work your way forward when telling a story. That way, your audience can determine for themselves if it's worth their investment to hear about; there's nothing worse than getting one's hopes up only to have them dashed by a weak or boring ending."

"I don't know the ending," I admitted. "I suppose it will probably end with my death."

"Wonderful! Oh, I simply adore stories that include the demise of a beloved character. How are you going to meet your end? No, don't tell me, let me guess; there's a handsome man dressed in sheep's clothing who'll hunt you down and send you home to Jesus. Am I correct?"

"Probably," I hiccuped. I was getting tipsy, no doubt about it, and the absurdity of the situation began to tickle my funny bone. I started to giggle, helplessly.

Miss Vick frowned, removed one of the chopsticks from her bun and poked my knee with the dull end.

"Now stop this nonsense right this minute. You see this here chopstick? I can poke that silly fool's eyes out in a heartbeat and he wouldn't even see it coming, pun intended. So don't you go worrying your little head about him coming after you while you're in my domain, you hear?

Now tell me your story while you've still got enough wits to recall and before you fall asleep on my divan and ruin the upholstery."

So, I did.

I told her everything, in between my tears, fears, her constant jeers, and the occasional jab of her chopsticks.

I didn't begin at the ending or the beginning. Rather I allowed it to pour out of my mouth as freely as I poured in the bourbon, which was offered to me with regularity, by an impatient Miss Vick. She kept tsking as I told my story, telling me I was the "stupidest old thing" she'd ever met first hand, and did I care for another ham biscuit, lest I became too drunk to finish the tale.

When I got to the part where I grabbed Foghorn and shoved him inside my Michael Kors bag, she burst out laughing, slapping first her knee, then mine, and declaring:

"That a girl! I've always been partial to cocks, myself. When I was a belle, my daddy, (God rest his soul) had a cranky old rooster named Mr. Jane who gave every suitor I ever had a fit whenever they attempted to kiss me on the south veranda."

"Speaking of Foghorn, where is he now? I should probably check on him ..."

"Why, he's sound asleep in my bedroom. No need to wake him now; he'll be crowing his head off in a few hours anyway.

So, your friend, Jasper, is he the one you want to get in touch with? I love him already as if he were one of my very own."

"Yes, he's my only true friend at Haworth-Adams."

"Well, as silly as you are I'm not at all surprised; he's probably more your social worker than a friend at this point."

"Yer probly right" … I slurred, with a drunken chuckle. "You know the worse thing about all this?"

"That you didn't double tap his sorry ass while you had the chance?"

"Yep," I burped.

It took me a second before I realized that she echoed the exact same words that Jasper used when I told him the story back in New Jersey.

"Hey, how'd ja know bout double tappin?"

"I'm a shut-in, Miss-Phony-as-a Three-Dollar-Bill-Annabelle-Crow; television is my lifeline to the outside world, apart from the Cullens. I have all the premium channels at my disposal. I love The Walking Dead; it sounds like my own biography."

We both burst into laughter.

But soon after the last giggle left my throat and the final snort exited my nostril, I started to become emotional and weepy.

"I should have killed him when I had the chance; does that make me a horrible person for wishing I'd killed him? Because I do. In fact if he were here right now I'd kill him with my bare hands."

"What is your real name; tell me quick before I stab you dead with my chopstick."

"Isabella Swan. But my friends call me Bella," I confessed.

"You mean Jasper calls you Bella; everyone else calls you Dr. I. D. Ot, at least behind your back."

"Yeah," I wailed. "And they'd be correct; I am an idiot."

"Oh, shut your mouth with that talk."

"But you just said I was an idiot."

"No, I did not. I said you were the stupidest thing I'd ever met in real life, but I never called you an idiot, not once. I did say that everyone else calls you an idiot behind your back."

"Oh, okay," I sniffed.

My head was swimming at this point; I was beyond drunk.

The clock in the hall began to strike eleven and we both jumped as it clanged and sang its woeful warning about the passage of time.

"Well, that's all she wrote, I guess. The girls will be back any moment. If you think they're going to allow your head to hit the pillow before they get to the bottom of your yarn, you are even dumber than I thought.

I suggest you run on upstairs and take a good hot shower; you smell like a pole cat. And don't think for one moment I don't know the reason behind that; young Edward smelled exactly the same. I'll let the girls drag that story out of you; I'm too damn tired and fresh out of estrogen to give a rat's hinny about that stuff anyway."

"Yes, Ma'am," I responded automatically. I tried to get up but kept falling back on the sofa. I finally gave in and just dropped to the floor on my knees and used the leg of the nearby chair to hoist myself upright.

"Be careful; that chair has been in my family since the War Between the States; why General Lee presented it himself.

"Was it a baby gift given to your parents when he heard the news of your arrival?"

At that, she poked my rear end hard with her chopsticks and laughed heartily.

"And here I thought I was going to have to ask Carlisle to remove the stick from your ass come morning. You're going to fit in here just fine, Miss Bella."

"But exactly where is here? You never did tell me your story," I reminded her.

"Psh … my story is far too long and complicated for this night. Besides, if I told you now, you wouldn't believe me anyway. And why would I want to spoil the townfolks' joy by ruining their chances to tell it for me; not that any of those simpletons would recognize the truth if it bit them on their asses.

But I will tell you one thing."

"What's that?" By now I was on my feet and wobbling towards the hallway.

"It will require you to stumble in the other direction; come with me," she commanded.

She walked the length of the room to a set of French doors and proceeded to open them.

"Mm, smell that scent? It's the smell of old money."

"It smells like boxwoods to me," I said wearily. My stomach began to twist and churn and I feared I was going to be sick.

"Indeed. Now if you think you might heave, please do so in the spittoon; it's located in the arbor under the Bleeding Heart and the Weeping Cherry."

_Bleeding Heart and Weeping Cherry? _

"Now come and stand over here; you can hold on to the pillar for support."

I did as she instructed and held on to the tall, white pillar as if it were my lifeline. I could hear the sound of spring peepers in the distance. It was a beautiful night; the sky was dotted liberally with stars and the moon hung low and full.

"Do you see this yard; how rich and profuse the grass and flowers are? Why, you could get drunk from the smell of the Gardenias alone, I swanny."

I nodded my head in agreement; it did smell lovely, although instinct told me not to breathe in too heavily, for fear that the contents of my stomach might leave my body when I exhaled.

"Why do you suppose that is?" She asked.

"I dunno … Miracle Grow?" I snorted.

"Pft … some might say that, but I happen to know better."

She turned to me then and commanded my attention with her dark eyes that shown larger and brighter than the moon.

"Not every man who went off to war died in battle, Isabella.

Some never left at all.

Others left and later returned, but they never saw the light of another day.

Abusive fathers

Cheating husbands

Jealous beaus

Ne'er do well brothers

Perverted uncles

Drunken cousins

Why, the backyard of every old southern estate is littered with their remains.

They may have served no useful purpose in life, but they sure do make the world a whole lot prettier when they left it.

They don't call southern women Steel Magnolias for nothing.

You asked me if I thought you were a horrible person for wanting that young scoundrel to be dead. Well, I am here to tell you that nearly every woman of my acquaintance has asked herself the very same question.

Some wouldn't tell you. Others could, but they can't; God has already called them home and questioned them himself.

His judgment is the only one that matters in the end.

In my life, I've known many men, but I've trusted few, and only loved one.

I shan't talk about that now … I'm too tired and too wrung out to recall.

But I will tell you that the men I've trusted have been my Daddy, Carlisle, and young Edward.

You'd do well to remember that.

Now help me back to the divan and run upstairs and take your shower. I'd ask you to assist me to my chamber, but I don't trust that you'd get me there in one piece. As it is, I hope you have the common sense to use the banister and take each step one at a time."

I removed myself from the pillar and took her frail hand. Together we dodged embroidered footstools, massive chairs, Highboys and Lowboys as we weaved across the stained glass colors of the "One-hundred-plus-some-change-oriental-rug" that was given to the family, "Ages ago."

Once I got her settled on the purple settee, I managed to navigate my way to the staircase that loomed before me.

I made it about half-way up, stumbled, and collapsed in its center.

The last thing I heard was the sound of a door opening and the cries of:

"Aw, hell, look at what's on the staircase! Where on earth is Miss Vick?"

"Oh Lordy, the poor thing is passed out on the divan … you get Annabelle upstairs and I'll tend to Miss Vick."

"Well, I guess the Colonel's bourbon is still serving its purpose even after all these years."

"Colonel's Bourbon, my ass; that decanter is full of Felix's white lightening … no wonder they're both passed out like a couple of bar flies at the Blue Moon Café on ladies night."

"What the hell is that sticking out of her back pocket?"

"It's one of Miss Vick's chopsticks, Ro."

"Huh. Well, if that's the case and she survived the cattle prod, then I think it's safe to say Old Annabelle Crow sold her soul to the devil tonight. I just hope she remembers what she said in the morning because it's sure as shit that Miss Vick will."

"You got that right, Ro. Now do you think we can manage them both or do I need to call Boots and tell him to get his ass back over here?"

"That Boots sure can kiss …

_My ass …_" I muttered, before falling asleep amid the shouts of raucous laughter.

Or so I was told, over four cups of steaming black coffee, three assorted pain relievers, and two expectant faces demanding to know every last detail of my night spent with Miss Vick.

My head still hurts, as do the faces of Allie and Rose, which they claim was caused by laughing themselves silly.

I might laugh myself, if I had the strength left to do so.

I do declare.

Lord

Have

Mercy.

***WTWAB***

Author's Note:Thank you for reading. Kindly leave a review and Miss Vick just might send you a thank you note (in cursive.)

Jayne xo

PS: Yes, Boots uses a variety of nicknames for his daughter. There is a reason for that which will be explained (along with his spitting) in subsequent chapters.


	9. Chapter 9: Whiplash

Welcome to What-A Burger

Whiplash

"I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow."

― Margaret Mitchell, Gone with the Wind

"So, Annabelle ... you ever gonna tell us about last night? Because you sure were going on and on about Boot's ass; wasn't she, Ali?"

"Ro …" Alice gives her a look of warning.

"What? She was, and you know it. Why I heard her call it …"

"Rose!"

"What'd I say?"

"You know what. Never mind. Leave Bell alone, K?"

"Pft."

I take a quick look at Rose's pretty pout and feel my cheeks blaze. Apparently, this is better than a midnight confession, and she sits back, cackling, and satisfied.

_What exactly had I said?_

"He isn't half bad looking, though, is he Annabelle? Especially his a-"

"Oh Rose, shut your mouth and leave poor Bell alone; she's still recovering from her hangover. Bless her heart. Not to mention the shock she's been in ever since she left Massachusetts; poor little thing."

They both nod their heads sympathetically, yet I feel as though they're just getting started.

They are.

"But I am curious; what did you and Miss Vick go on about? The poor thing is still sleeping it off. It's not like her to miss her morning shows; she'll be out of sorts the rest of the day now, just watch and see if she won't. Surely y'all must have discussed something … aside from Boot's hiney, that is." She grins, impishly.

I let out a small groan.

_What exactly had we gone on about?_

I reach over for the Aleve that's nestled on a lazy Susan in the middle of a large, claw-foot table, and try to stifle another moan, but the sound that comes out of my mouth sounds more like an animal in pain. This only serves to make Rose and Alice cackle all the louder, and I have to force back an even larger groan as I attempt to open the cap. Why must these caps always make one struggle to get them open? I feel bad enough as it is without having to tussle with a damn bottle cap on a drug that is supposed to provide relief.

_Dear Doctor Bayer, _

_You suck._

_Love, Bella_

Ugh … I am losing whatever literary skills I might have once possessed thanks to the tour de force that has become my life.

"Oh, girl … let me get this for you," a loud voice booms in my ear. I wince at the sound.

I look up to see a rather large, woman of color, whose smiling face reveal teeth so white that I think they must be false ... until I notice the gold cap that is adorning the one in the center of her grin.

"I'm Shelburne Isaiah Cope, though everyone 'round here mostly just calls me Miss Shelly. You must be Miss Annabelle; the girls have been been chewing my ear off about you all morning,"

"Um, yes … it's nice to meet you," I stutter, thanks to another moan, which I attempt to suppress. She seems nice enough, but why on earth does she have to be so loud?

Miss Shelly opens the bottle with a practiced hand and pours two on a pink lace napkin. She then offers me an icy bottle of water, which I gratefully accept as I pop the pills in my mouth. gratefully.

"Thank you," I mumble. A bit of water drips down my chin, and I swipe it away with the back of my hand. I'm a mess.

A hot mess

I remember Jasper used to call Jessica that when she would come in into the office wearing the same clothes that she left the office in the previous Friday.

'_Had you a good time, Jess?'_ Jasper, whose language was impeccable when he taught his multitude of high-brow classes, could sound like he just came out of a barn after a day of milking and shoveling horse dung, depending on his mood and the situation.

'_I'm a country boy at heart, Bella, no matter how many degrees I earn.'_

'_Mmph, it must have been a very good weekend. She's a hot mess. You gonna finish that doughnut, darlin?'_

Shit. Jasper!

Um, Alice? Miss Vick said I could use her phone last night," I said stated in a shaky voice. _She'd __said__ no such thing, but, Alice doesn't know that._

"I said no such thing, Miss Annabelle-I'm-a-Liar Crow."

I glance up to see Miss Vick standing in the arch of the doorway, one hand on the gleaming, white wooden frame and the other clasping a cane, this one adorned with the head of a rooster atop the staff.

_Shit – FOGHORN!_

"Oh, sit back down, Crowsie, before you pull something. Shelburne?"

"Yes, Miss V?"

"You got my breakfast toddy ready? I declare, after last evening I need a bracer."

"Mmph … and I declare a bracer is the last thing you need. A harness to keep your ass in the chair is what you need. A bracer … I'm going to call Doc G and see if I can't get me a bracer."

"Shelbourne Isaiah Cope … if you don't get me my toddy now, you're fired, you here? And I mean it this time!"

"Oh pshaw … you've meant it every time, and I haven't gotten my pink slip yet. Now you best sit down before YOU pull something. I've got your prune juice chilling in the ice box. I'll fetch it as soon as I get your sheets out of the washer. They smelled something terrible … what'd you and lil Miss get into last night; your late brother's shine?"

"Oh, shut up and get me my juice before I fire you again."

Alice and Rose break into peals of laughter.

"Alli, I'm going outside to smoke – I feel a lecture coming on, and before we get sucked into it this time, I need some nicotine in my system. You coming or what?" Alice bolts from the table faster than a Jackrabbit.

"Now Miss Vick, you know you don't mean that; what you gonna do if I finally take you serious one of these fine days and pack up my cases and leave you flat? You know Mizz Pratt's been after me for years, and she says she'll pay me double the crumbs you toss my way. Mm-hmm … She sure did. I've got a mind to take her up on that after the way the gals found you and Miss Annabelle all sprawled out on the stairs this morning like a couple of hootchie mamas, I surely do. Mmph – I can't imagine what the Reverend Ben is gonna say about this one – why he'll likely do an entire month of sermons about it. I declare, if I didn't need the extra money to put my baby through Duke and his sister through Wake Forest, I'd have up and quit the lot of you years ago."

"Shelburne! In the first place, I was not sprawled out all over the stairs; I was simply reclining on my granddaddy's divan. Now, as for Miss Crow, I cannot say; she is from up North, so there's no telling where or how those people sleep; Daddy always assumed they hung upside down in their attics like a colony of conniving bats. But I assure you, no one was _sprawled_," she states, definitively and dismissively, with a small wave of her outstretched hand.

"I'm just sayin …," Shelly says, with a wink as she strolls out of the room sashaying her broad hips and whistling something that sounds a lot like Yankee Doodle Dandy.

**wtwab**

Thirty minutes later, the girls have dressed and left for work. They bid us farewell with promises to check on us later. Miss Shelly has dispensed coffee, juice, muffins and warning about the sins of alcohol and the devil himself. Miss Vick and I are sitting at the table still waiting for the Goody's powder Miss Shelly fixed us each to "kick in."

"Well, now ... isn't this a pretty sight; A Southern Belle and a wild Yankee from Massachusetts all bellied up to the table like a pair of mismatched salt and pepper shakers."

I hear his voice before I see his face and therefore I have time to bury my own in the confines on my arms. I turn my head to the wall and groan; "Ugh … not you ... not now. Not ever."

His laughter only makes the pounding between my brows that much worse.

A sharp kick on my ankle has me practically bolting out of my seat. I glance sharply at Miss Vick to see her fixed gaze on my face.

"I believe you best go out back and check on Mr. Foghorn, Crowsie. That pen I put him in isn't likely to hold; in fact, Boots, I believe you'd better go with her to make some, er, adjustments. I left the toolbox beside Ant Beona's Begonias."

I look at her sharply ... what is she up too now? Is she trying to get Boots and I together to give us some alone time?

"Did you brush your teeth?" She hisses softly, between bites of her bran muffin.

_Did I brush my teeth … WHAT?_

She raises her brow ever so slightly and gives me a pointed look.

"Boots, I want Shelburne to take Elizabeth downtown this afternoon to go shopping for delicates and unmentionables. I'll expect her here no later than 3:00 o'clock, you hear?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he says with a grin. "I certainly appreciate it; I didn't exactly relish the idea of seeing Miss Pig wax on about brassieres, anyway."

"Well, I should say not; they're called unmentionables for a reason, Edward," she says, with a look that brooks no argument and chastises at the same time. I stifle a chuckle into my napkin.

"You ought to get down on your knees every night and thank the good Lord, or the fates, or whatever you currently believe, that you were blessed to have so many women who are willing to do these kinds of feminine tasks for Elizabeth. Bless her heart."

"Yes, Ma'am, I am, and I do – especially the part about not having to buy Beth a bra, er, an unmentionable, or whatever.

Well, I guess I'll go out back and check on that birds' pen before I head down to the shop for a few hours." He looks at the kitchen clock and sighs; "Damn … it's getting late … Jake's probably already throwing two fits; I told him I'd be in directly, but I had some calls to make, and I had to drive to Charlotte to pick up a part for Mizz Thelma's Delta 88."

"Oh, my - is Thelma really still driving that old thing? I declare that car has been prowling these roads for the past forty years if it's been a day. And that poor thing is as blind as a bat, too; why she nearly took down the sign last year at The What-A-Burger according to your daddy. Seems like it's high time the state of North Carolina revisits that license they dispense to anyone with a computer and a credit card. Which reminds me; I've got to get my own renewed next month."

I look at her in surprise. "But I thought you said you were …"

"A shut-in? I am, but that doesn't mean I am surrendering my right to drive, Miss Crow."

She stands at her place and waits patiently, like a queen, for Boots to hand her the cane that is sitting by the doorway.

"Shelly! I believe I'll have my tea on the front porch. Mind you put a drop of Pap's tonic in it ... I feel a bit peckish this morning, I swanny."

He watches her round the corner and twirls around to face me. "Well, quit dawdling, and go brush your teeth already; I don't have all day. I need you to hand me my ... _tools_," he says with a straight face.

_What on earth …_

He winks and saunters out of her kitchen with a small grin.

Okay. I finally figured out what happened.

_I'm dead._

Yes, that's right; I'm dead. Either James killed me when I was back at Jasper's farm trying to escape from him, or he managed to get me when I fled. Or maybe I had an accident along the way? Doesn't matter; the only possible explanation for this absurdity that is now my life has got to mean one thing – I died, and this is Southern-fried hell.

I am stunned out of my sudden realization by a sharp pain in my side.

"Ouch!"

I turn, startled, to see a chopstick in the delicate, blue-veined hand of Miss Vick. She aims it at me and jabs the air uses it to punctuate her words

"You heard the man; quit dawdling and go get ready. Boot's doesn't have all day to be kept waiting by the likes of you, Miss-My-Pretend-Name-Is-Annabelle-Crow-But-You-Can-Call-Me-Bell."

"I thought you were sitting on the front porch having your tea," I swear I saw her leave the room, yet here she is by my side, poking me with her chopsticks and assaulting me with her innuendo.

"This house has many surprises, my girl. You'd do well to remember that in the future; it was built by some of the most cunning and conniving craftsmen in the south and that is saying a mouthful. There are twists and turns at every corner; why you never know where or with whom you'll wind up. Besides, did you honestly think I was going to leave the two of you alone in my breakfast room? Why, my great-great grandfather hand carved this old table himself; he certainly wouldn't appreciate it being used for anything apart for meals."

I stand there with my mouth agape; her implication is obvious and completely inappropriate, why I would never –

"Oh, go take care of your dental needs, Crow's feet; your mouth's already open. There are clothes hanging in the closet that ought to fit you, thanks to Rose. I swear if that girl doesn't quit eating everything in sight, you'll have a whole new wardrobe come fall."

_Fall?_

Do these people think I'm settling in here? I stand there looking at her in shock.

"I believe I'll let that thought hang in the air while you attempt to process it, for now. As for myself, well, I'm going upstairs to draw my bath; I declare, I'm just covered in bullshit."

I close my mouth and dash back upstairs to the room I've been appointed. It's large and sunny with an enormous armoire flanked by two windows. There's a fireplace in the center of the room with a portrait of a rather, roguish-looking, Confederate soldier, just above the mantle. His hair is a dark bronze and his eyes appear to be a murky green, although it's hard to tell from my vantage point. I walk over to it and peer up, and he … he looks as if he is smirking back at me.

_Oh, Jesus._

I'd know that smirk anywhere; I've had it directed at my eyes and my lips.

Lips?

I hurry and brush my teeth.

**Wtwab**

Ten minutes later, I'm hurrying towards the rear of the house when I practically skid to a sudden halt.

_What am I doing?_

I am a twenty-nine-year-old, educated woman; a college professor. I live a quiet life, surrounded by books and like-minded individuals in a world of academia. Granted, I made a huge error in judgment when it came to James Witherdale, but that doesn't mean I have to lose myself in the process, does it?

No.

No, what I need to do is simply rest for a day or two, gather my wits, get in touch with Jasper, and head back to Massachusetts where I belong.

I stand in my tracks for a minute, bouncing on the balls of my feet. It's as if my head knows I should turn back and head to the house but my feet won't cooperate.

_What are you doing?_ I ask myself again.

"What are you doing?"

See, I can't even have a single moment to take a pause to gather my thoughts, let alone my wits in this place. I've always been a person who is composed and controlled. I may be romantic when it comes to my preference in literature, but when it comes to my personal life, I use reason and logic.

_Yes ... and you see where that got you; James Witherdale, anyone? Maybe you should just surrender your need for logic and reasoning and go along for the ride, Darlin. You never know where life will lead you if you don't let go of the reins every once in awhile._

But I did … I let go of the reins when I met James.

_Nah … you handed him the GD __reins, __and he took control._

Perfect. Now on top of the insanity that is my life I have Jasper's phantom voice in my ear; and worse, I'm answering it back.

"I've been waiting in this damn heat for hours; thought you'd never get out here," Jasper's voice whispers.

I feel soft lips, and rough stubble graze my jaw and look up into a pair of verdant green eyes that widen marginally at my confusion. Yeah … that's not Jasper. I shiver where I stand and wait.

"Come with me."

"No."

We stand there and look at each other.

He quirks an eyebrow.

I square my shoulders.

He frowns.

I huff.

"Lord … you sure are a stubborn little thing." He stares down at me for a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing, and there it is … the smirk. And before I have even a millimeter of a moment to process that beyond-irritating expression, he does something that until now I've only read about in books.

He squats down, grabs me behind my knees, hoists me up over his shoulder, and carries me off into the sunset.

Okay, so not the sunset; the sun is shining far too brightly for that particular time of day, but no matter. My heart flutters like a young girl who discovers her grandmother's secret stash of bodice rippers hidden in the attic corner on a rainy afternoon.

But all too soon those flutters are replaced with an electric current that starts in my hairline and ends in my toes.

Fear.

I stiffen like a dress shirt that's been starched one too many times.

My fingers dig into the soft cotton of his t-shirt, and I feel the breath leave my chest as it pines out of my mouth in one long, stutter.

'Hey – hey, now; are you okay?" He asks as he puts me gently down on the ground.

My throat constricts, and I half turn away from him, fearing that I'm about to be sick.

His calloused hand moves towards my face, and he smooths my hair off my brow and tucks it, unexpectedly, behind my ear.

"Jesus, fuck – who did this to you?" He asks as he trails one long finger from my cheekbone to my jaw. "I noticed last night, you were bruised up, but I figured it was from me, from the grease on my hands. This isn't grease."

"No."

"Did Whitlock do this to you?" he asks, leveling his eyes.

"What – how did you- no- no Jasper would never – I … Did Miss Vick tell you? I croak.

"Naw – nobody told me shit. I checked the registration this morning. That's why I brought you out here – I wanted to know who the hell Jasper Whitlock is, and what you're doing with his truck so many states away from home. You steal it or something?

"No! I would never … Jasper, he's-he's my friend. My best friend. We-we work together. Jasper – he knows I've got his truck and Foghorn."

"Foghorn?"

"Yes."

"The rooster?"

"Yes."

"Are you in trouble?"

"Yes."

"Break the law?"

"No … I –I don't think so."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No – Miss Vick – she knows," I whisper.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

He looks at me and his eyes soften. "Yeah ... okay. If Miss Vick knows, then, I guess it's all right for now as long as you don't bring trouble here." He turns my face in his filthy hand, oh-so-gently, and lifts it up to meet his gaze.

"Are you gonna bring trouble here?"

"I hope not."

"Liar," he murmurs, as his cherry-stained lips capture mine in a playful, almost, but not quite a bite, kiss. And just as he's about to pull back, my hands, with a will of their own, pull him forward. I press my lips firmly against his, and he lets out this little gasp of surprise, followed by frustration, and ultimately, surrender.

We kiss and kiss and kiss, and then we kiss some more. Long, deep, hot, wet, open-mouthed and toe-curling kisses under an umbrella of Disney pink blossoms and Crayola blue skies.

The sound of our breathing is punctuated with bird songs, train whistles and the muffled noises of dishes clanging from the house.

When we finally stop … to catch breaths and collect our wits (if we have any left) we stand there, toe to toe and eye to eye, saying nothing.

We wait.

Finally, he gives into the silence, shakes his head as if to clear it, and smacks his lips, then grins.

"Mmm … minty-fresh," he teases.

"I – just brushed them.

"Well, go on and alert the American Dental Association," he chuckles.

I blush.

"You're blushing."

"Yes, well … I'm, ah …" I look down at the ground as if my lost wits are just lying there waiting to be scooped up and put back inside my head.

Finding nothing, I look up to meet his gaze.

"What are we doing?"

"I dunno ... you tell me, and we'll both know."

"I just –"

"Yeah. Me too."

"Listen …" we both say at the same time. I laugh a little, and he pulls out his smirk.

"You first …" we say, again, at the same time.

"I'm only here for a few days ...

"I'm not interested in getting mixed up with …" Our words bleed together and hang, unfinished, in the air.

We stand there and just sort of look at each other - expecting each other to finish, but we don't.

"Look," he says, finally breaking the silence. "I fixed your rooster's - Foghorn's, pen. It's nice and tight, and it should hold him for the night. Course, he's likely to pitch a fit since he's probably been spoiled by your fancy purse and all, but …"

"Thank you,"

"Yeah … whatever," he says, scratching the back of his ear. It looks pink and a little hot, like maybe he's embarrassed?

"Listen, I've gotta get down to the shop, but I need you to do a favor for me. You think you can manage that?"

"Um …"

"It's not that big of a deal. Well, it is, but if you can't do it, just say so.

"What?"

"Well, it's about that damn dog Elizabeth was all fired up about last night. Seems, my dad found him behind the Burger, and he needs to go to the vet's this morning and get checked out. I'd do it, but I don't have time. You don't have to drive; they're right around the corner.

"I'm …" _Afraid of dogs. I have been ever since Happy bit me back in the fifth grade. _I rub my scar absently searching for the right words.

I don't need them.

"Huh … who'd a thought it …?"

"What?"

"You're scared of dogs."

"No … I'm not … I'm just …"

"Skittish?"

I bite my lip.

_Skittish?_

"A little," I finally admit.

"Dog bite?" he asks, finally, lifting my wrist to inspect the scar.

I nod my head in agreement.

"Well, just take a look at this little fellow; he's real docile. If you're still scared I'll get Shelly to take him; she's not a fan of dogs either, but she'll do it if I ask."

Of that I have no doubt; seems he only has to walk into a room around here and these women fall all over him.

He takes my hand and leads me around the back of a large, faded, red barn. There, in a small fenced pen is a tiny, black dog – no bigger than a small cat. He has a thatch of white on top of his head and a long beard that almost reaches his paws. I stifle a grin; there's something about this animal that reminds me of Dean Berty from Old Howie. When he spies Boots, his curly tail thumps happily in the dirt, shrouding him in a cloud of gray dust. I chuckle, in spite of myself. He's darling!

"So … you wanna check him out, maybe hold him or something?" he asks, toeing the ground with the well-worn point of his work boot.

"Okay," I say cautiously. If there's one thing I've learned recently, it's that looks can be deceiving.

"Come here, boy!" he calls, and then, whistles. The little dog bounds up to him and Boots bends down and picks him up over the pen. The dog squirms in his arms and licks him happily under his chin. Boots giggles and pushes the pup's mouth away from his face.

_He giggled._

I roll my eyes mentally at my thought; what is wrong with me? This man is definitely getting to me, and I have no idea why. There is nothing about him that I should find attractive; he's uncouth, uneducated …

_Under your skin …_

I let out a huff. Okay, yes … he is attractive, I suppose. If you like tall men with swampy green eyes and Southern drawls who pin you up against cars and walls and kiss you until you're …. well, you know.

_And I am not that girl_.

Besides, he spits.

He lets out a deep chuckle when the dog attempts to climb up his shoulder and nuzzles his ear. His face is shining in the morning sun, and the rays glint and dance in his hair, surrounding both him and the dog in an aura of pure gold.

_Okay, so maybe I am that girl_.

He hands me the dog, and although my hands tremble a bit, I can't stop the laughter from bubbling in my throat as he wrestles in my arms to get closer to my face and manages to give me a quick lick just under my jaw.

Boots takes him from my arms and settles him on the grass, clipping a leash onto his collar. He hands me the lead.

"I think it's safe to say you'll be fine with this here fella. Just bring him down to the vet's around two and get him his shots. Elizabeth will be here then to go shopping with Miss Shelly, and I don't want her seeing the dog until she gets back; I'd like to surprise her, I guess. I dunno …"

And my heart thuds.

_Stop it. This man and his daughter and their little dog are not for you. You are a college professor on the lam, remember? Even as you stand here swooning over this odious yet gorgeous auto-mechanic … James Witherdale is very likely rounding the corner, just waiting to make good on his threat._

At this thought, I look over my shoulder, worriedly. As my eyes scan the horizon for a pair of Windex-blue, they meet a set of muddy green. His eyes narrow and he frowns. I watch him walk away, and a tremendous feeling of loneliness sweeps over me.

He didn't even say goodbye.

He gets about six-feet away from me, stops, and pulls out a cell phone that appears to be almost as antiquated as mine. I watch as he punches in some numbers and then speaks.

"Hey, bro … yeah, how's it going? Yeah, yeah ... no ... yeah, I'm good. Yup, got the part but it's getting kinda late to address that today, so … uh-huh. Nah … Well, good. Okay, look … think you can handle that job on your own? Oh, Pete's there?" He laughs. "Yeah … just tell him to keep his paws off my Cheerwine and Mee-Maw's red velvet cake; I'm planning on that for a midnight snack. Anyway, I got tied up with something over at Miss Vicks … naw … nothing like that … just a little situation I gotta address, that's all. Right. K … thanks, man … appreciate it. Later." He snaps the phone shut and thrusts it in his back pocket.

"Let's go."

"What?"

"I'm taking the day off. Jay's got it covered; Pete's there.

"Pete?"

"Cousin."

"Oh."

"But … what about my truck?"

"What about it?"

"Well, that part you ordered … how long is it going to take for it to get here and how much is it going to be? I told you yesterday, I don't have the money, but if you just let me use your computer I can look for Jasper's family, get his cell number, call him and …

"Okay, just hush."

"Excuse me?"

"Just shut up. God, you Yankees talk a lot … damn … y'all could chew the ear off a brass monkey, I swear. I always did wonder how y'all managed to win the war; none of y'all got a lick of common sense and the damn heat ought to have been enough to kill ya'll, Lord knows … But, now I know. Y'all just ran your yaps so damn much that y'all either bored us to death or we ended up begging y'all to send us home to Jesus just so we didn't have to hear y'all talk anymore."

I open my mouth to protest, but he leans forward and pins them shut with his fingers.

"You said you're in trouble right?" I try to speak, but he pinches my lips back closed.

"Just nod."

I nod.

"And you claim somebody went and stole your purse?"

I nod.

"And you ain't got more than twenty-odd bucks or so left to your name?"

Okay, so I've got twice that much, but since he's still pinching my lips together, I just nod and shrug.

"Well, all right. Here's the deal. You ain't got a truck right now, and from the looks of it, that thing is gonna be out of commission for the rest of the spring and most of the summer too. Now, I've got people out searching for parts, but it's going to take awhile to locate them and even longer to install them. I'm busy 24/7. I've got a kid to take care of, a business to run and other obligations that don't include the likes of a beat up Chevy and a loud-mouthed-opinionated-girl-from-Massachusetts-who-looks-like-pure-T-trouble-with-a-capital-T even if she does know how to get my own motor running."

I jerk myself away from him and stumble back.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I choke out.

"Oh, is that a fact?"

"Yes. You stand there and have the audacity to tell me that I am a loud-mouthed opinionated Yankee who talks too much when you've used more words - incorrectly, I might add - than Mr. Webster has in his entire dictionary. You're rude, uncouth, vulgar, rough, coarse, and … you-you spit," I sputter.

"I spit?"

"Yes, you spit. You spat so much yesterday I'm surprised you have enough saliva left to spit a word out, let alone a flood of verbiage and insults."

"Verbiage?"

"Yes. It's when …"

"I know what it means, little Miss Know-it-all … shit, you Yanks think y'all are so damn smart."

His face looks positively thunderous, and mine, I'm sure, looks exactly the same. We're at an impasse and neither of us want to surrender. Angry tears begin to pool in my eyes and I squint fiercely to stave them off. He looks at me and his face softens.

And that's all it takes.

"I'm sorry."

"S'all right.

I bite my lip.

He scratches the back of his ear and gives me a small, almost sheepish, grin.

"So … I spit?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Well, that's on account of those damn cherry lozenges I suck on all the time since I gave up the cancer sticks, I guess."

"Well, it's disgusting."

He frowns.

"Then I'll start smoking again, okay?"

"No, it's not okay. _What?_ Just … stop." I hold out my hand to gesture him from going any further, in a manner similar to one that I would use on my pupils.

This is seriously the strangest conversation I have experienced in my entire life. My head is reeling, and I feel like I'm going to pass out.

"You gonna pass out?"

"Probably."

"Why?"

"Because … you - you people are literally driving me insane, which, given the circumstances that brought me here, is to be expected, I suppose. Regardless, I can't even concentrate long enough to think, let alone come up with a solution to the dilemma I'm in right now -"

"Then don't."

"Pardon me?"

"Oh you heard me; I said, _then don't._ Give them up for a bit. Take a vacation from them; don't worry … they ain't going nowhere fast, I promise. But what's the point of getting yourself all worked up over them right now?"

I'm about to answer him why it's impossible for me to do that, when the dog, tired of being ignored, starts barking, loudly. We look up to see Miss Shelly, carrying a large basket, of what appears to be sheets, striding towards us.

"All right, you two … that's _enough_. Lord knows you two have been bickering back and forth so long that poor ole Miss Vick is liable to get whiplash from standing there watching y'all from her windowsill. Not to mention that she's probably gonna poke her own eyeball out with one of those chopsticks she favors, just lobbing that head of hers back and forth, bless her heart.

We look up just in time to see a billowy, lace curtain come to an abrupt close.

"Mm-hm. Y'all didn't honestly believe for one minute that she was watching Jerry Springer when she could see the real thing being played out in her own backyard, did you?

Now if I were y'all, I believe I'd take advantage of the beautiful day God granted us. Go on and take this here little man down to the pet doctor and then, when y'all are finished I'll have a basket ready. Miss Vick says y'all should head down to the lake and clear your heads. Well, that's not all she said, but I'm not repeating the rest; I've got my bible study tonight.

I've also got to get my washing hung before Miss Lizbeth gets here," she says, as she readies the wash for hanging.

"Y'all be smart now, and get," she says, through a mouthful of clothespins. We watch as she cracks the sheets, expertly in the Carolina sun and begins hanging them on the line in military precision.

'_Give them up for a bit. Take a vacation from them; don't worry … they ain't going nowhere fast, I promise_.'

His words circle around my head, all languid and slow ... just like his drawl. And I'm tempted to take heed. I want to … oh, how I want to.

Boots' eyes meet mine

I shrug

He smirks

I swallow

He grabs my hand

My heart does this weird, skip, beat, thud

And …

We get.

A/N: So ... Hi. (Insert nervous laughter - here) Um, yeah. So, it's been, what ... 20 months as the crow flies? (Ooh a little pun. You know ... the crow thing. Okay. So, dumb. I'm off my game. It's been awhile.)

I know I should have done a recap. Yup. But frankly, after an almost two year hiatus, I figured most readers have

One: Abandoned the fic

Two: Forgotten the plot

Three: Confused it with something else

So basically just do what I did. Re-read it. I mean ... I didn't know who these people were or what they were about either. I was like ... why is this bitch so dumb? Oh. that's right.

All kidding aside ...

GOD, I MISSED YOU GUYS!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter; I have missed this story so much! It feels so good to be back, it really does. And the best part is ... the next chapter is pretty much finished and I am going to make every effort to update on a regular basis. I'll shoot for every two weeks. I can't promise, but that's my game plan.

Thank-you to my fic-sis, Fran who corrected my many mistakes and made it prettier than a Carolina mornin.

See you soon!

Jayne xo

PS: I am actually heading to North Carolina tomorrow. I haven't been back there in a year. I think it's fitting that I get to go to a Twi-fic-meet-up right where this story all began. I might even treat myself to a Witch Doctor. Don't know what that is?

You will. ;)


	10. Chapter 10: Boiling Springs

**WTWAB**

Chapter Ten:

Boiling Springs

"The reason as to why we are attracted to our opposites is because they are our salvation from the burden of being ourselves."  
― Kamand Kojouri

*****WTWAB*****

"Well, he's a Shih Tzu all right; pure bred from the looks of it … not sure about his age, but given the condition of his teeth I'd say he's around three – maybe four. No micro-chip either," Doc Wolf announces, as he finishes up his exam.

"He's a healthy little guy; maybe a bit underweight – course from the looks of his feet I'd say the rascal put quite a few miles on those pads of his, didn't you boy?" he said, ruffling the tiny dog's ears. "You say your daddy found him in back of the Burger, huh?"

"Yes, sir – least that's what I was told when I picked him up this morning. Um … Listen, Doc ... I don't wanna get ole Bip all fired up over this here fellow if the owner's gonna show up and claim him – that would break my baby-girl's, heart."

I watched the exchange between Boots and the veterinarian carefully. Even though I had already formed a definite opinion of Boots, I am beginning to realize that my first impression of him, spitting notwithstanding, may have been a little harsh. Any man who puts his child first like he does surely can't be all bad, can he?

"Well, of course, we can't be sure Boots. But given that he's not chipped, got no tags, isn't on any website for lost dogs and the condition of his feet, I'd say your chances of the owner showing up at this point are probably slim. Still, I can list his picture and keep him here for a week or two to see if anyone contacts us."

"Naw … I mean, yeah … I think y'all should run the picture just in case – it's the right thing to do after all - but I believe I'll go ahead and take him on home to Lillibet tonight if it's all the same to you."

"I think that's mighty fair of you, Boots. Okay, I'll just go ahead and give him his shots, and then you can take him on – although you might want to check with Miss Peggy at the Paw-Wash to see if she can squeeze him in for a grooming; he's plumb ripe."

Two shots and one call later, Boots and I are dropping off the dog at Peggy-Pigs Paw-Wash.

"Why Boots, I declare it's been ages since I saw you last … what-choo-been-up-to-boy?" She says," as she reaches out and grabs him in a huge bear hug. Brown curls surround her head like a frizzy halo, and they bob, haphazardly, as she fairly dances him around the salon.

"How's your Mama? Lord – I haven't seen her in a dog's age – I've been busier than a one legged cat in a sand box."

"Nice pun," he snorts.

"Oh, you … come here and gimme some sugar; I swan … I haven't been bussed by a handsome chap like you since I was in bobby socks."

He bends over and gives her cheek a dutiful peck, and the woman fairly beams with pleasure.

_What is it about this man?_

She looks up suddenly, and a sly grin spreads across her face like jam on bread.

"Well now, who do we have here? Ain't she a pretty little thing? Don't tell me you're finally over that no count, trashy Tanya … well, I declare, Boots … it's about time. Lord knows we've had you in our prayer circle for goin on five years if it's been a day. Course, I was holding out hope against hope that you'd finally come to your senses and sweep me off my feet one of these fine days, but I can see that even if I do have the right parts, they ain't exactly the latest models, and that's a fact.

What's your name honey?"

"Um, Annabelle. Annabelle Crow," I stammer.

"Crow? As in bird?"

"Er ... yes."

"Huh. Well, I don't believe I ever knew any Crows round here. Where's your daddy from?"

At this, Boots steps in between us and takes my hand.

"Miss Peggy, this here is Miss Annabelle, she's a friend of the girls. She's gonna be visiting us for the spring and maybe even into the summer."

WHAT?

"Well, now … it's right nice to meet you, Miss Annabelle; such a pretty name, I declare. Is your mama from round here; your face looks so familiar."

"Uh."

"Naw, Belle's from …" he cocks his head to the right and his smirk to the left.

"Oh, my …" she frowns.

"But her granddaddy's from Mississippi," he lies, unashamedly. I swear I feel the tiniest of hip bumps and it's all I can do not to stomp on his foot.

"Well, I declare … it is so nice to meet yuuuuuu," she says, as if my granddaddy being from Mississippi made all the difference in the world.

"What time will he be ready?"

"I'll have him finished by four. Y'all go on and enjoy this beautiful day. Boots, you should take Miss Annabelle down to the springs," she says with a small wink. Boots face reddens.

Reddens? Did-did he just … blush? I watch in amazement as the color spreads to his ears and down his neck.

"Does he have a name yet?" she asks as she fills in the forms.

He looks at me for help. I look down at the little pooch and am once again reminded of Dean Berty; with his thatch of white and long beard, the resemblance is uncanny. Still, it isn't my place to name this dog.

"Shouldn't your daughter be the one to choose?" I ask, quietly.

Both he and Miss Peggy burst out laughing.

"Oh-hell-no," he says, wiping his eyes. That poor thing'll be more confused than a fart in a fan factory if ole Bip tries to name him."

"Ain't that the truth," says Miss Peggy.

I look at them confused; don't most children get to name their own pets down south?

"I'll explain it to you in the car," he says.

"Just call him dog, for now, I guess."

"Wait. How-how about Bert?"

_What am I doing?_

"Bert?"

I shrug. "He looks like an old man with that beard; he should have an old man's name," I explain.

"Miss Peggy puts her face down next to the boy's ear and croons, "Do you like the name, Bert?" His tail thumps.

"All righty ... Bert, it is. Now all you need is a cat named Ernie, and ya'll be set!"

A few minutes later we walk back to Miss Vicks' house. As promised, Shelly has a large picnic basket waiting for us in the sunny kitchen, where she stands at the counter watching a small black and white TV; the kind with rabbit ears.

"Miss Belle, I went and pressed an old sun dress of Miss Rosalie's for you; it's gonna be hotter than Hades this afternoon; go slip it on; it'll be big, but it's pretty and more importantly, cool"

She hands me a red cotton dress, perfectly plain, save for a few buttons on the back. I take it from her and run to the bathroom and slip it on. It's loose and comfortable.

When I return to the kitchen, Boots and her are standing at the counter munching on a pan of freshly baked biscuits; my mouth waters. Boots breaks a piece off the one he's eating and puts it in my mouth (which opens automatically before my brain even it gives it permission to do so.)

"Good, huh?"

"Mmm …" I grunt, my mouth full. He laughs.

Miss Shelly raises her eyebrows and looks at the clock.

"Y'all need to get before Miss Thing wakes up from her nap," she says, buttering a biscuit and popping a piece of it into her mouth. "I'd like a little peace before that happens, thank-you-very-much. My story's bout to start; now shoo."

We shoo.

I climb into an old silver Volvo; the seats worn, but buttery and soft. Volvos aren't known for soft seats; indeed, my Aunt's friend, Frances Beekman, had a blue Volvo station wagon and Aunt Margaret often remarked that it suited Frances to a T because it made one sit up ramrod straight; as if a hot poker was up one's backside.

'_She's a lovely woman Bella, a bit stoic perhaps, but lovely. That said, I swear I have never known any individual who still possesses a pulse, to be as stiff as Frances; why it's as if she has two spines instead of one.'_

But Boots' Volvo was different; it was soft. Contented, I let out a little sigh and sit back in the front seat, trying to relax.

"This is nice," I say, stupidly. "I wouldn't have expected you to drive a Volvo."

"It's the same one I used to drive you to Miss Vicks' house the other night."

"Is it?" I guess my memory has gone by the way of my wits; they're both lost.

"Guess your mind was on other things that night," he says, with a wink.

I feel my face flush.

_If he only knew ... _

"I drive a lot of everything," he continues. I'm a mechanic; if it's broke, I fix it. After it's fixed, if I like it, I might buy it; depends. I got all kinds of cars and trucks; even got a few bikes. But I always take the Volvo when I got Bess by my side."

"Is it her favorite?"

"Naw, it's the safest."

_Thud_

His love for Elizabeth is just so very sweet

_Stop it_

I avert my eyes and stare out the window trying to make, well, basically everything fade away.

"So, why can't your daughter name the dog?" I ask, after a few minutes of awkward silence.

He laughs, sexily.

_He laughs, sexily?_

What is wrong with me?

"Elizabeth gives herself a different name every time she turns a corner; can you imagine how mixed up that little man would be if I let her do that to him? Shit – he'd be as lost as last year's Easter egg."

"Is that why you call her all those derivatives of Elizabeth?"

"Derivatives?"

"Yes, you know ... nick –"

"Oh hell … there you go _again _… I KNOW what it means, Yank. I just don't think I ever heard anyone outside of an English class ever actually use it in a real life sentence before; what ... you a teacher or something?"

I swallow thickly and look down at my lap trying to decide just how much I should tell him.

"Why did you tell Mrs. Pig that I was staying with Alice and Rose for the spring and possibly the summer?"

"Why are _you _changing the subject?"

"I'm not … I'm …"

"A teacher?"

The silence is so loud it's deafening.

"Or something," I mutter, finally. I turn my head away from his eyes and stare out the window.

"Huh," he grunts. "Well, okay, then."

"What does that mean?" I ask, suspiciously. I may not know this man well, but I do know he always seems to have a motive.

"Mm … nothing. I'll get it out of you eventually."

_Of that, I have no doubt._

"Alibi."

"Alibi?"

"Yes … it means you have a story ready just in case you need to pull something out of your ass real quick in order to cover said ass," he explains in a serious, teacher voice that sounds remarkably like my own. I want to hit him with my purse.

Except … I don't have one.

I turn to give him a glare, and he pulls a face.

I laugh in spite of myself.

He takes the next exit off the highway and turns down a long, winding, gravel road, then another, and another, until he finally stops when a fallen branch and debris prevent us from going any further.

"Shit. I guess we should've used the truck after all; the roads still rough from the storm we had last week. You feel up to hoofing it?" He asks, shutting off the motor and glancing down at my feet.

I'm still wearing the same silly sandals I had on when I ran away from James. The weather had been so pretty that morning, and I'd had a pedicure only a few days before …

I sigh.

"Oh don't you fret, Yank ... if it get's that bad, I'll just haul you over my shoulder like I did back at the barn.

_Oh, I don't think so._

Well, are you coming or what?" He asks, climbing out of the car. He reaches in the back seat for the basket and hoists it on his blue-jeaned clad hip. I notice that in spite of the well-worn denim of his pants, they're clean and fit him well. In fact, everything about him today is clean, save for the beds of his fingernails, which are still marred with traces of grease. I guess that must be quite difficult to remove. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out something red.

"Is that a lollipop?"

"Nah ... it's a Dum-Dum, dum-dum. You want one?" he asks, removing the wrapper and popping the candy into his mouth. I roll my eyes. He acts like a child half the time, even if he does look like a man.

A He-man_._

I can remember my Aunt Margaret using that expression:

'_He's what you would call a He-man … virile, strong, a little hairy, a bit smelly, and just all man.' _

"No thanks."

"Suit yourself."

"Does this mean you're going to be spitting soon?"

"Yes Ma'am, it does," he says, as he marches down the road, gravel crunching between his steps.

"Perfect," I grumble, as I try to keep up with his long-legged pace. But it's not easy – he's tall – at least six feet two and I'm almost a foot shorter. Soon, I find myself panting to keep up, and even sooner, all I am is a dot on the landscape and a speck in his dust cloud. Which is, I must say, rather a shame; apart from the physicality of the hike, I'm rather enjoying the view.

And I'm not referring to the landscape.

"You ready for that shoulder yet, Yank?" He calls.

"Never!"

"Suit yourself!"

"I will!"

"Damn stubborn Yankee!"

_Stupid redneck with a gorgeous ass_

What?

I didn't say that out loud, did I?

I round the corner of the path, huffing, and puffing and then let out a scream when a pair of arms wind around my waist and lift me up in the air.

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing," I yell. "Put me down!"

"Nope, not until you tell me what you said."

"I didn't say anything, I swear it."

"Liar."

"Boots … Please … put me down!"

His eyes narrow. "You call me a redneck?"

"Maybe."

"Uh-huh. And did you say something about my ass?"

"No … well, I might have _called_ you an ass."

"That's not what I heard."

"Well, get your ears checked then. Now put me down!"

He does. I drop to ground like a sack of potatoes and land squarely on my behind.

"Ouch!"

"Serves you right for telling a fib," he laughs.

I stand and brush my seat off, then let out a gasp. There before me is one of the most beautiful vistas I have ever viewed in my entire life.

"It's right purty, isn't it?"

"It's gorgeous," I say. Because it is. Between the mountains, the trees, the flowers, the blue skies, the bird songs, and the babble of the water and the warmth of the sun … I have never seen anything more gorgeous.

"But it's not as gorgeous as my ass," he sings, as he pulls out a red and white, checkered table cloth and lays it on a grassy knoll overlooking a large, bubbling spring.

"I did not say that," I insist.

"Have it your way, Yank. I know what I heard."

Blushing, I open up the basket and begin pulling out the contents.

I expected sandwiches, chips, and maybe a piece of fruit and perhaps, a cookie or two. What I didn't expect was a virtual feast.

Container after container of fried chicken, potato salad, macaroni salad, deviled eggs, pickled beets, biscuits stuffed with ham, and a frosty jug of iced tea, meet my eyes and makes my mouth water, again.

"Is that all she put in there?" he asks, disappointed.

"You've got to be joking … we'll never eat all this," I protest.

"Wanna bet?"

I look to see him rummaging through the basket.

"Oh … there you are! See? I knew Ole Shelly wouldn't disappoint!" He holds a container up in the air and smiles at it adoringly.

"What is it?"

"What is it? What IS it? Ooh … gal, just you wait … your ears are gonna wiggle they'll be so happy!"

"It looks like cake."

"Cake? It looks like cake? Well, just you wait … it might look like cake, but this here? This is a little slice of heaven in a box."

I laugh at his ridiculous hyperbole and sit, passing him a plate and plastic picnic ware.

We help ourselves to the food and tea and begin our feast.

"This – this is amazing," I say, in between bites of, well, the most amazing food I believe I have ever consumed. Of course, it's been a very long time since I truly ate a meal of any substance, what with all the drama of the past few weeks. I chase those weeks out of my mind … I want to enjoy this moment.

Please, God … let me enjoy this moment.

We chat while we eat, and as promised, Boots doesn't ask questions about my circumstances that led me to North Carolina, although he does circle around them, dangerously close to the edge.

"So, Miss Or-Something, what do you like to do for fun in that pipsqueak state of Massachusetts?

Huh, what do I like to do for fun?

"I read. I like to go to symphonies. I enjoy visiting museums. I love to travel. How about you?"

"Well, the last few years I've been pretty busy playing mama and daddy, so I haven't had much time to go to symphonies and museums," he chuckles, using air quotes. But I go to the occasional race, and of course, I like tractor pulls and hunting. I go fishing with Liz whenever I can. I like music … I like it a lot."

"What kind – country?"

"Yeah, country's good, so is classical. It's all good, I guess."

Classical? I try to cover my surprise by reaching for a deviled egg.

"What … you think a country boy like me can't appreciate classical music or something? Man … you really are a snot, aren't you?"

"No … I'm … just … okay, yes, surprised. You seem more like the type to pick a banjo to me, I guess."

"Well, yeah … I do like banjo music … as I said, it's all good."

"Sorry," I say.

"Whatever. What else do you like to do?"

I rack my brain trying to think of something … and there's not much else I do-do. God, when I get back to Massachusetts, I really do need to get a life. I'm a bore.

"Um, nothing really. Well, I love old cemeteries; I used to do gravestone rubbings but …"

"Shut-up."

"What?"

"I don't believe it."

"What?"

"We've got something in common."

"Really?"

"Yep. I love the old bone yards … always have ever since I was a kid; even got a bumper sticker on my truck that says _'I brake for old graveyards.'"_

"I've got one of those too!"

"I never did a rubbing though."

"I could teach you … it's not all that difficult …"

"Yeah?"

I shrug. Suddenly the atmosphere changes and instead of the light banter we were enjoying there's awkward silence between us. He knows I won't be sticking around long enough to teach him anything, least of all gravestone rubbings.

I struggle to find a safe topic and try to keep the conversation flowing.

"So, um … your ex?"

Brilliant diversion, Bella, as always … I groan, inwardly; small talk has obviously never been my strong suit. But Boots surprises me and seems to take it in stride.

"Tanya."

"She's …"

"Dead," he says, bluntly.

"Oh – Oh, I'm so sorry ... I didn't realize … I thought from the way the girls and Miss Pig talked that you and her were –"

"Over. We were; had been for a while. She ran off with a sailor from Massachusetts a few years after Bip was born. Met him at some bar in Charlotte. Didn't leave me no note, no kiss goodbye, no frying pan clobbered over my head … she just poofed. Cleaned out our savings account; just took the money and ran. Left me the baby though, so I guess I can't complain; I hit the lottery with that little gal."

"Wow."  
"Yeah, wow. I guess I was so damn busy running the shop and helping Daddy out at the Burger, I never saw it coming. Tanya's biological daddy was supposedly from Massachusetts, but she'd never been there. Always did have a hankering to see it though; guess I should've known." He pauses to take a gulp of his beverage before he continues.

"Anyway, she got killed in a wreck somewhere south of Boston around two years back. The cops there called me; she still had me listed as her next of kin.

So, it's just me and Elizabeth now, I reckon, and honestly, she's the only good thing to come out of that union so … yeah."

"I'm sorry, Boots."

"Eh, don't be; she was what the girls call a BFM."

"BFM?"

"Big fucking mistake."

"Oh."

"Well, it's water under the bridge now. Besides, Tanya always was a wild thing; pretty as a picture, but knew it too, know what I mean?"

I nod my head.

"We'd known each other since we were kids; hell, all of us grew up together in the home. I knew she was no good; the girls, Miss Vick, even Mama and Daddy, hell, they all tried to warn me off her, but I was too damn stubborn, and she was too damned determined to pin me down, so …" He trails off.

"The Home?"

"Yeah … that's a story, too. I'll let the girls fill you in on good ole Boiling Springs Home for Children."

"All right," I say. Although it isn't all right … a home for children? My curiosity is certainly piqued. I resolve to ask the girls about it tonight when we get back to Miss Vicks.

"How did you get the nickname, Boots?"

His eyes narrow and he grins.

"Well, you sure are a nosey little thing, aren't you?

What's _your_ real name? I know it's not Annabelle Crow … any fool could tell that was made up on the fly."

"I-I …"

_Don't know how much I should tell you … if I can trust you … if I'll put you in danger_

"Forget it … I'm just messing with you, girl," he chuckles, shaking his head. " I guess folks started calling me Boots when I was just a little chap … I had a pair of cowboy boots, and I never did wanna take'em off; wore 'em all the time; even to the town pool," he shrugs.

"It's sort of charming," I offer, trying to envision a miniature Boots with a thatch of red hair; all freckles and smirks and tripping about in a pair of over-sized, cowboy boots.

"Charming?" he snorts.

I blush.

He grins.

"Whew, it sure is getting warm out; I'm hot," he announces.

"So, how about you?" He quirks a brow in my direction.

"A little," I admit. "I can't believe it's May … the temperature must be close to eighty."

"Naw, I mean … you got an ex back home or what?"

And there he is … the blonde hair and pale face of the blue-eyed demon is suddenly before me, threatening to ruin my afternoon. I can feel my throat tightening in response, and I force myself to relax those muscles in an effort to keep it at bay.

Boots nudges my knees, slightly with his foot. I clear my throat.

"No."

He leans forward and lifts my hair away from my temple and traces a line down my cheek.

"You sure about that?"

My hands begin to tremble ever so slightly, and the appetite I was finally enjoying vanishes in the blink of an eye.

"A BFM?" He asks, gently.

"Yes," I whisper. "The biggest."

I start clearing up the remains of our picnic, and he watches me, quietly, with those big green eyes that never stray far from my face.

"Well, my bucket is full." He says, finally, stretching out his long legs, and patting his non-existent stomach.

"Mine too; everything was delicious."

"Yeah, Miss Shelly is one heck of a good cook, and that's a fact," he says, wiping his mouth, almost daintily, with a starched, white napkin.

He's got manners after all. He keeps them well-hidden, but he's had some exposure to polite society, I think to myself.

He lets out a belch and grins.

Okay, I take it back; he's still an oaf.

"Sorry … excuse the pig, the hog speaks next."

"Pardon me?"

"Hah ... now you're the hog!"

"What are you, like five?"

He laughs. "Pretty much. You need to lighten up … you're so formal. Lord ... don't you ever let that hair of yours down?"

"It is down."

"I'm talking about the one up your butt."

I'm about to jump up and start for the car (he is so annoying!) when he suddenly rises and stands above me with an outstretched hand.

"Come on, Yank, let's go for a swim!"

"What?"

He moves his arms around in a free stroke pattern.

"NO."

"Yes."

"I don't have a bathing suit with me."

"You don't need one."

"I am NOT taking my clothes off and getting in that water with you."

He rolls his eyes.

"So ... just slip that too-big dress of yours off and go in your unmentionables."

"My unmentionables."

"Yes, you know … your bra and pan –"

"I know what they are, Edward."

"Edward, huh?" His eyes take on a predatory gleam, and his voice drops down several notches.

Okay, I'm not going to lie … this could be fun.

I'm hot.

He's hot.

And that water looks wonderful.

Images of the two of us frolicking and cavorting in the spring flood my mind; I can see us laughing and playing; carefree, pink-cheeked, and as happy as children. And perhaps, just perhaps, a small kiss or two tossed in for good measure.

I look at the spring

I look at Boots

I look at the picnic

It's tempting

"Isn't it still too cold for swimming?"

"It's a hot spring."

"What about the cake?"

"We'll eat it afterward."

It's the_ afterward_ that has me trembling.

He beckons me with his finger, all curled and pointing.

You know that moment when you know something is about to happen and everything inside you is screaming:

WARNING

GO BACK

DO NOT PASS

Yes … that moment.

That was the moment that should have come with James, but never did; until it was too late.

Why? I reason that I must be defective in the areas of basic instinct and female intuition.

Yet here I am, in the middle of a Carolina forest, with a virtual stranger – a man, who has already pushed every one of my buttons; including a few that I never knew existed, and it finally appears … instinct. The feeling sweeps through me, swift and sure.

I shiver in equal parts of unknown fear and delicious anticipation.

I'm teetering on the precipice of right and wrong, good and evil, love and hate, Yankee and Rebel. And I know I should give into it; I should listen; take heed -

"Oh come on, Yank ... getcher tail in that water before I throw you in!" He pulls his T over his head and tosses it on the tablecloth. I can't stop the stare or the blush as I note the ripples of his chest and the breadth of his shoulders. He has a long torso; a swimmer's body, with equally long legs, legs which are now thankfully uncovered, as his jeans drop, carelessly, to the ground.

He stands, there, in all his glorious, magnificence, wearing nothing but a pair of gray plaid boxers and a cocky grin.

"I'd ask if you like what you see, but your tongue hanging out and that puddle of drool on your chin, pretty much sums it up for me, so what's the point?"

Ugh. Talk about an arrogant, insufferable ass … _Like what I see_ … what nerve!

"I'm just joshing … Lord … you sure are as serious as a heart attack, aren't you? I thought you agreed to let down your hair, relax, and have some fun today. Now come the hell on and get in the water!"

He turns and runs to the spring and dives in like he's Michael Phelps training for another Olympic encore.

Show-off

I wait for him to surface, but he doesn't.

I scan the horizon; the spring is bubbling, and there is a thick mist in parts, but no Boots.

I panic.

I run over to the edge and toss aside my too-big, Rosalie-dress and jump in.

"Boots!" I yell. "Boots!"

I wade through the bubbling waters looking for signs of him, finding nothing. Hot tears form in my eyes, and my throat begins to constrict with fear. What will I tell his sisters and Miss Vick?

Oh my God ... what will I ever tell his little girl? She's already lost her mother and now her father too?

"Boots!" I scream, crying now in earnest. I start to wade out; frantic to get to the blanket ... I know I've got to get help somehow. I hope he has a phone in his jeans.

I'm just about to climb out when I feel something pinch my thigh. Startled and scared, I look down in time to see a pair of swampy-green eyes rise above the surface, followed by an aquiline nose and a mouth full of water, which is squirted at me, through a set of blinding white teeth.

"Going somewhere?" he taunts, his face all smirks and googly eyes.

I take one look at his beautiful, stupid, mocking face and promptly burst into tears. His smile fades faster than a Spring Break tan.

He looks at me, horrified.

I scramble to get out of the water.

"Hey, hey … I'm sorry, sugar … I was just playing. I didn't mean …" he reaches out for me and pulls me back from the edge, into his arms.

I smack his chest hard with one hand and pound his shoulder with my fist. He grabs them and clasps them together, then stills them with a kiss.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"I-I thought you might have hit your head and drowned," I cry, collapsing into his chest "You scared me so badly … why? Why did you do that? If you only knew what I've been through ... what HE put me through ... and now you … YOU do this to me … it's worse than anything he ever did," I babble.

"I'm sorry, shush … I shouldn't have done that to you, you're right. I should have known better," he croons, kissing my forehead.

"It's just ... I can't …"

He kisses all over my face, and I can't breathe … I can't catch my breath at all. He's all there, and I'm all gone.

"I'm sorry … I won't scare you again, I promise … He lifts the hair off my neck and kisses it gently.

"What's your real name?" he whispers in my ear.

_Mynamemynamemyname …_

"Isabella … Bella." The truth pines out of me, unbidden, but without a trace of regret.

The heat … the smell of this man, the feel of his skin, the hard calluses of his hands on mine … it's too much, and it's not enough.

"Bella?"

"Yes."

"You're beautiful."

"I'm not ... I'm …"

_A mess. _

_I'm trouble. _

_I'm every girl your mama warned you about._

I start sobbing, thinking of everything I was, and everything I'm not anymore, and everything I will never be again, thanks to James Witherdale.

His specter, threatening and ominous, rises before me, but with a single touch of Boots' hand to my face; he disappears into the white mist.

"Shush …now. Hush. I know you've had bad things happen, honey, I'm so sorry." He kisses my temple softly and trails the kiss across the sweep of my cheek … softly, so soft … softer than a whisper in the wind.

The water steams, spits and sprays under, above, and all around us.

"I knew it … I've always known it … Alice told me years ago you'd be coming," he mutters into my collarbones; he's pressed so close to me I can feel his heartbeat pounding life into mine …

Thud

Thud

Thud.

I'm as lost as a girl can be, yet in his arms, I'm suddenly found. I don't question why, instead, I grab on to his neck and hold his face closer, closer, closer … pressing the stubble of his beard harder into the softness of my skin, relishing the burn.

I feel raw. I feel open.

I feel alive.

"I knew it the moment you stepped out of that sorry-ass truck, when I saw your eyes for the first time, all round with fear, but familiar too; that's why I got so damn mad."

There isn't a part of us that isn't touching … arms, hands, feet, legs, breaths, … even our hair, wet and wild, is tangled, twined and twisted together. We're snarled; odds and ends of mismatched remnants … a blue and gray quilt of perfect imperfections.

"I knew you had troubles."

_Kiss_

"I knew you were gonna spell trouble."

_Lick_

"I knew you were gonna _be_ trouble."

_Nibble_

"And I knew … I knew …

Fuck." His mouth, hot and hungry, covers mine.

Finally, finally, finally …

"Bella," he groans against my lips.

"Boots" … I whisper …

"_Edward, Edward, Edward …"_

**WTWAB**

I'm sure you've read about trauma and how it affects one's decision-making skills? And how traumatic events precipitate hormonal encounters due to the overflow of adrenaline? (It's well-documented; trust me, I've done my research.) And then, that pesky Mr. Dopamine and his cousin Serotonin steps in and decides to crash the party, and …

_Oh, God_

The next thing you know … before your brain has the sense to call Reason and Logic – before your Good Senses arrive to show them who's the boss of you -

You're flat on your back

Naked as a jaybird

With nothing but the Carolina sky above you

The soft grass of the earth beneath you

The babble of the spring all around you

And the weight of a dirty, sexy mechanic

Between your legs

And deep inside you …

*****WTWAB*****

A/N: Oh-hell-no that wasn't sposed to happen in this chapter; Lord. I done told these two fools that this here was sposed to be one of them transition chapters, but then that dumbass had to go and take that plunge into the spring and shot that plot straight to Lucifer. Bless their horny little hearts. Known each other for all of what; two days? Couple of Hootchie Mamas, and outside, necked as a jaybird, too. I'll pray for them.

I can't even think straight now. I gotta get me somethin stronger than sweet tea to settle my nerves down over this shit. I got no idea what they're gonna do next ... I just hope they do. (Okay, I'm kidding. The next chapters almost finished. lol!)

Happy Easter for those who celebrate! See you in a week or two!

Jayne xo

PS: I want to thank y'all for the lovely reviews from the last chapter. I was very touched by the wonderful homecoming this story received. Thank you so very much!

And thanks also to my fic-sis, Fran, who makes everything so much prettier, and especially for her loyal friendship, sisterhood, and unwavering support. I love you, girl!


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